


Starstruck

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxious Bucky Barnes, Awkward Stucky, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Eventual Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Medium Burn, Meet-Cute, Movie Star Steve Rogers, Nerd Bucky Barnes, Professor Bucky Barnes, Stucky - Freeform, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 116,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bucky Barnes had been faced with a career opportunity of a lifetime: the chance to be a film consultant on a potential Oscar-bait film. The only problem is that Bucky's celebrity crush, Steve Rogers, whom he's had a minor obsession with for years, is the star, and Bucky can't seem to keep it professional between the two of them. Nor can he even tell if Steve wants him to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy! Comment if you want to (I'm sorry if that's intimidating, idk what I'm really doing rn)

Bucky was, honest to God, going to die. He was just going to spontaneously combust right there in the museum cafeteria and drift into a thousand pieces of ash. The ash would probably stick to the coffee stains he’d left on the man’s shirt, and make the man’s too-tight T-shirt even more thoroughly ruined.

Of course Bucky’s day would go like this; on his first day off after spring semester, first of many since he was on sabbatical till January, he woke up early to find that his cat Eustace had vomited all over his softest slippers. Then, upon making his morning coffee, he had found his milk to be spoiled to the point of chunkiness, so coffee at home was out the window. While getting dressed, he had realized that his favorite Star Trek shirt had a hole in it, and now, after arriving at the history museum right as it opened for a well-deserved break after his grueling semester of teaching under-motivated, over-medicated college students, he had taken a face-plant and dumped his freshly-purchased iced coffee all over a random stranger. He would not only have to buy a new coffee, but also a new shirt for the victim of his clumsiness, probably. Honestly, fuck his life. 

“I am so, so, so sorry,” Bucky mumbled, picking himself up from where he’s sprawled on the tile floor, still clutching the now-empty plastic cup of his drink/weapon, and hurriedly adjusting his glasses from how they’ve fallen askew. “I’ll buy you a new shirt, sir,” Bucky offered lamely, angling his head up to make eye contact with the poor, obnoxiously tall guy. It was then that Bucky felt all his blood drain out of his body and drip onto the floor next to the remnants of his drink as recognition ran through him like a tremor.

“Oh, shit,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. He wanted to say something more along the lines of “double shit, triple shit, quadruple fucking shit sundae with shit cherries,” but somehow managed to refrain. 

Bucky’s life was absolutely, one hundred percent, completely and totally ruined. 

Because, standing right in front of Bucky, his obnoxiously tight shirt stained with coffee, his mouth twisted into a polite frown, was Steve Rogers, in all his golden-haired, azure-eyed glory. As in the famous actor Steve Rogers. As in Bucky’s celebrity crush Steve Rogers. As in the Steve Rogers whose GQ photoshoot Bucky had jerked off to just last week. Holy shit.

Bucky tried to will his wide eyes back to normal, his gaping mouth shut, but it was to no avail. Because Steve Rogers was making eye contact with him. A mere mortal. Bucky felt like that part in The Phantom Menace where child Anakin is immediately in love with Padme despite being a literal child (and a little shit to boot), and managed to come off as creepy even though he was only, like, eleven. He was probably about to make a fool out of himself like Anakin, too.

As if in response to that thought, Bucky’s hand flew down practically of its own accord and patted his phone in his front left pocket, definitely about to whip it out and beg Steve Rogers for a selfie. But asking for a selfie would be entirely inappropriate, especially considering the fact that Bucky was probably about to have to shell out who knows how much to replace Steve Rogers’s almost-definitely-designer shirt. Bucky hastily yanked his hand away from his pocket as if he’d been burned, and instead gritted his teeth, ready to be yelled at by the hottest man in this century.

Steve Rogers, however, just shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said coolly. “I needed an excuse to go shopping, anyway.”

Bucky almost didn’t hear Steve Rogers for the blood rushing in his ears. Holy shit. Holy shit! Steve Rogers was being cool about this! Bucky’s heart was pounding deafeningly loudly and he swallowed, practically choking at how dry his mouth was.

“I-I can still buy you a new shirt at the gift shop or something.” Bucky’s voice sounded so high in his ears that it was almost comical. He cleared his throat, probably too loudly and too long, but there was no other way he’d be able to actually talk to Steve Rogers without sounding like a prepubescent groupie. “Just so you don’t need to walk around in a wet shirt all day, at least,” Bucky added. “I mean, what if it molds?” Bucky cringed at himself internally; he was talking to the man he had fantasized about sexually for who knows how long about mold, which was almost certainly the least sexy topic of all time.

Steve Rogers huffed out a laugh. “That mold is concerning,” he teased.

Bucky’s cheeks heated up, but Bucky managed to maintain what he hoped was an easy-going smile. It probably looked more like a grimace, but Bucky was too nervous to put in the effort to fix it.

“You’re all good, man. Don’t worry about it,” Steve Rogers finally said, after it had probably become clear to him that Bucky was nearly, if not fully, catatonic. “I was just heading out anyway.” With that, Steve Rogers turned and walked calmly toward the exit.

Bucky marveled at Steve Rogers’s perfect posture and incredibly broad shoulders before realizing he looked like a major creeper and if Steve Rogers turned around right now he’d see an absolute idiot gaping at him.

Bucky shook himself from his hot-guy induced reverie by hastily glancing down at his shoes and sighing. His Docs were covered in coffee. He hobbled over to the counter, trying to avoid slipping on his mess, and grabbed a wad of napkins to try and dry himself. At least the museum had just opened for the day, so there were very few people around to witness his idiocy. Bucky stopped cold at that; how could Steve Rogers “just be leaving” if the museum had only opened 15 minutes ago?

Steve Rogers probably got special early access, Bucky reasoned to himself. After all, being here just 15 minutes after opening had resulted in Steve Rogers receiving a ruined shirt and the ramblings of a nervous fanboy. Steve Rogers was simply too popular a celebrity to mingle with the commoners such as Bucky himself.

After ten minutes and wasting about a dozen innocent napkins in the fruitless attempt to dry his shoelaces and two dozen more to get the stickiness out of the tile, Bucky sidled up to the counter to order a replacement. There was no one else in line, thankfully, so Bucky didn’t have to look anyone in the eye except the barista, who at least had the grace to save his giggles until Bucky was walking away with coffee in hand.

Bucky sipped it silently as he slid onto the escalator toward his original plans for the day, the decidedly less sexy World War I exhibit. Bucky, despite being earning a PhD in history and teaching two classes each semester on World War I, could never get enough of it. Especially when the exhibit included real artillery shells, and an actual, signed letter from Germany to Russia from just before war was declared. Bucky just couldn’t help himself; he was a total dork for historical artifacts.

He spent a quiet morning in the exhibit, only interrupted by the docents greeting him because he was the only person in the exhibit and his intrusive thoughts about how much nicer and rounder Steve Rogers’s ass was in person compared to magazines. He perused the American Indian wing, did a quick walk-through of the Civil Rights exhibit, and headed home around two in the afternoon, just as the museum was beginning to fill with too many people for Bucky to feel comfortable with. He had never done well with crowds, and had done worse with them since his time in the army, nearly ten years ago, which had gifted him with a few mild to moderate anxieties.

Bucky shoved the heavy door of the exit open with his good shoulder, and sighed softly as a warm June breeze enveloped him. June was the best month; hot enough to wear shorts, but still cool enough that the hot garbage stink of piss and weed didn’t permeate the whole of Manhattan.

Bucky debated walking the fifteen blocks back to his studio apartment (he hated how small it was, but how was he supposed to afford something bigger in the city on professor’s salary?) in lieu of the grimy subway so he could enjoy the weather, but decided against it; his neighborhood wasn’t exactly safe in the best of times, and was especially not so now, with crime rates on the rise and all. He’d rather the thin skin over his knuckles crack from overusing his travel-sized hand sanitizer than deal with a mugging. Besides, his left shoulder, never great in the best of times, was tight and painful after his incident that morning, and he could do with having a minor break from walking.

Bucky descended into the subway, trying to avoid touching the banister. One time, right after being discharged, he had taken the subway to some bar or restaurant or something. He’d had to lean heavily on the banister because of how his ears and balance had been messed up from an IED, and had ran his hand through a sticky piss-scented puddle. How one even got piss there was beyond him. Luckily, his balance had recovered in the near-decade since his discharge and the countless VA-sponsored doctor’s appointments, so Bucky was able to climb onto the subway without touching anything too gross.

Steve Rogers probably had a private, chartered car to escort him from place to place. What Bucky wouldn’t give to date that man; not only was he the hottest man on the planet, but he also would come with so many rich-people benefits!

Bucky cracked a smile at his internal joke and wrapped a hand around the subway pole (the seats were worse than the poles; they probably had lice or something worse than a basic rhinovirus).

Bucky’s head was spinning too fast to even focus too hard on the germs that were probably crawling up his leather jacket right now; he still couldn’t believe he had spilled coffee all over Steve Rogers. That was literally so mortifying he couldn’t even process it. But Steve Rogers had been cool about it! Even nice about it! That, in and of itself, was absolutely bonkers. Steve Rogers was actually super chill and nice in real life as well as in his numerous magazine interviews and talk-show spots. Bucky could honestly swoon at how nice Steve Rogers was.

Bucky was like a lovesick puppy for Steve Rogers. Bucky was a complete stranger to Steve Rogers, though. Oh, well. Bucky figured that since he’s been in a spell drier than the Sahara Desert, he was entitled to his little freak-out over his celebrity crush.

The train eventually ground to a halt, and Bucky practically leapt off, dumping hand sanitizer over his palms as he walked hurriedly across the street to his building.

That was one benefit of living in his shitty, dilapidated, asbestos-ridden building, Bucky thought to himself: easy subway access.

He shoved open the door to the stairs and was just starting to climb them up to his fourth-floor walk up when his phone began to ring. Bucky hummed his ringtone, the Imperial March, absentmindedly, and yanked the phone out of the pocket of his too-tight jeans.

He was met with a call from a Los Angeles phone number. Bucky’s eyes narrowed; he knew no one from LA, had no reason for anyone from LA to call him at all. It was probably just a prank call or a scam or something.

Nevertheless, Bucky leaned against the stairwell wall, ignoring the germs in favor of resting his wrenching shoulder against any available surface, and tapped “Accept Call.”

“Hello?” Bucky said, absentmindedly toying with the short hairs at the back of his neck that had escaped his bun with his right hand.

“Hi. Is this James Barnes?” The voice was a pleasant female one, warm and just a little bit husky.

“This is he,” Bucky replied, growing more confused. How’d some random person in LA know his number, let alone his full name?

“My name is Pepper Potts. I’m a senior associate at Stark Pictures,” the voice said calmly. This was even weirder; why was one of the biggest film corporations in the United States (if not the world) getting in touch with him -- a nerdy, clumsy WWI geek -- of all people? 

“We’re currently developing a new movie, centered around World War I. It’s our understanding that you are one of the leading historians in this area, publishing three books on the subject and achieving full professor after just four years at Columbia University,” Potts continued. Bucky felt himself blush; having your accomplishments listed for you by a complete stranger was kind of nice -- in an embarrassing, stalker-y sort of way.

“We were wondering if you would be willing to consult with us on the film. It is our understanding that you will be on sabbatical for the coming semester. We would, of course, pay for a temporary move to the LA area until January so that you can easily commute to set.” Bucky was so momentarily distracted by the royal “we” that he almost didn’t catch the job offer.

“Excuse me?” Bucky said, practically choking on air.

“We’d match or exceed your current salary, of course,” Potts went on, as if Bucky hadn’t spoken.

“Wait, wait, Ms. Potts. Slow down. What’s happening?” Bucky was entirely shook with surprise. Most job offers he’d seen coming, because he had either applied to them or had been told by someone that they were recommending him. But this was completely unexpected.

Potts laughed on the other end. “Stark Pictures is producing a World War I era movie. We want to ensure the utmost accuracy, and you, Mr. Barnes, seem like exactly the man for the job. You’d get paid equal or more than your current salary, get put up in a nice apartment in LA for six months including grocery and utilities, mingle with some of Hollywood’s top people, and have a shining gold star for you to boast on your resume when people question you for being a full professor at an age when most of your peers haven’t even received their PhDs yet. So, can we expect you in LA next week for filming?”

Bucky had to bite back a giggle; this lady was awfully presumptuous. But she had an amazing point: Bucky might finally be able to get all his colleagues to stop doubting him and his research because of his age. The ones at Columbia didn’t mind his age too much, but at conferences he’d always felt weird, always felt awkward being at least ten years younger than his peers. This almost felt too good to be true.

“What does consulting even entail here?” Bucky challenged, trying to get Potts to slip up and tell him the catch in this whole scenario.

“It would mainly be basic fact-checking. You’d be watching filming, correcting costumes, makeup, storyboard, the actors, et cetera.”

This was insane. This was objectively ridiculous. Bucky was a random history professor still a little fucked up by his military service. He wasn’t some Hollywood bigshot. He was in no way qualified to effectively expedite a real, legit movie. “May I ask, Ms. Potts? Why me?”

“Well, Mr. Barnes, your resume speaks for itself; you’re one of the foremost authors and scholars on the topic, you ascended the ranks of academia in record time, and gained a PhD in less than four years. It certainly didn’t hurt that you’re an honorably discharged veteran -- this is a war movie, after all,” Potts explained.

Bucky was reeling. This was creepy; how did these people know so much about him?! Bucky lifted his glasses onto his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did you get all this info on me?” Bucky demanded less politely than he’d like, anxiety leaching into his tone.

“We’re a top film corporation, Mr. Barnes. We have our methods. Don’t worry; I assure you, everything we found was absolutely sterling.”

Bucky sighed, curiosity slowly taking over his paranoia.

“Okay, Ms. Potts. C-can you give me some details on the film itself?” Bucky stammered, trying to level with the overly-polished woman on the other end on the line.

“Of course, Mr. Barnes. It begins during July 1914 and follows a young German couple through the war, all the way through to the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, focusing on their views on the Allies’ blaming of Germany for the war. There’s mumblings of it being Oscar bait among some of our staff. We’d love to nab at least a few Academy Awards, and you’d be integral in allowing that to happen by ensuring the utmost accuracy.”

There was that phrase again; utmost accuracy. Either this lady was seriously dedicated to her craft, or she was an intensely creepy WWI-obsessed sociopath who wanted something from him. Bucky sighed and tried to ignore his paranoid mind. 

“Who’s attached to the project?” he eventually asked, in lieu of “get the fuck off the line, you creepy stalker lady,” which was the phrase he desperately wanted to say.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you until you’ve signed your contract, plus a few NDAs,” Potts sighed, sounding truly sorry about it.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. This was too much, too fast. It was his first day of summer break. He was planning on day drinking and watching Netflix, not making a decision on a potentially life-altering career opportunity. He didn’t know if he could just up and leave for LA. He didn’t even know what role he’d be serving, other than the overly ambiguous “fact-checking.” Bucky had no idea whether Columbia would even be okay with him dropping the research he was supposed to be completing during his sabbatical in favor of whisking himself off to LA to “consult.”

Bucky sighed and ran his tongue along his chapped lips, his mind racing as he tried to make a decision.

“Can I get back to you? There’s a lot of factors here,” Bucky finally offered lamely, utterly unable to decide that quickly.

“Of course, Mr. Barnes. We do need to hear from you by the end of the week, though.”

“That’s fine.” It was only Tuesday. Bucky had three whole days to think about it and try to get his affairs in order. It should be fine.

“Great. I’ll have my assistant send you an NDA. Once you sign it, I can send you some storyboard, script snippets, costume design, and, of course, a filming schedule to help you make your decision,” Potts said, a hint of motherliness sneaking into her tone.

“Sounds great, Ms. Potts.” Bucky tried not to sound overwhelmed. He didn’t think he succeeded.

“Of course, Mr. Barnes. Have a great day.” She ended the call before Bucky could even move his phone from his ear.

Holy shit! Bucky might get one of the biggest opportunities of his whole career! As soon as he finished climbing the unfinished cement stairs to his apartment and opened the door, his phone pinged again. An email from Pepper Potts -- the subject read simply “NDA.” 

Bucky flopped down on his shitty stained couch and pulled up the email, opening the attached PDF. He scanned the contract, eyes glazing over at all the legal-ese, before hurriedly pasting his e-signature onto the document and sending it back.

It didn’t matter too much that Bucky didn’t read the whole contents of the NDA, he reasoned. After all, this was just to get extra info to help him make his decision; it wasn’t like it bound him one way or the other.

Bucky flicked on the TV, looking for something mindless on Netflix, when his phone pinged again. Another email from Potts: this one with the subject “Movie Preview.”

Whoever the fuck this Pepper Potts lady was, she sure was efficient. 

Bucky scanned through the storyboard, his Netflix forgotten. It looked good. Full color splashes of a random couple in front of war propaganda, the August Days riots almost perfectly captured. He noted a few inaccuracies in the timing of Kaiser Wilhelm II’s Burgfrieden speech; the storyboard had it taking place in the day when it had actually occurred in the evening.

If this is what the job was, Bucky was into it. Simple fact corrections and getting to hang out in LA instead of his shitty apartment in the midst of the summer piss-stink sounded practically like a dream. Bucky pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes, letting his phone drop down into his lap. This was crazy. This was absolutely batshit.

As if spilling coffee on Steve Rogers hadn’t been enough excitement for the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Electric Boogaloo!

“Shh,” Bucky whispered softly, sticking his fingers through the wire mesh of the cat carrier and scritching Eustace under Eustace’s gray chin, attempting to soothe his overwhelmed cat. Eustace was not happy right now, and Bucky couldn’t blame him. The airport was loud and crowded and generally just a bad place for an anxious germaphobe and a disgruntled, cooped-up cat. Eustace eventually stopped meowing like he was being stabbed, and Bucky smiled softly, cooing gently to his now slightly chilled-out travel companion.

Satisfied that Eustace was calm enough, Bucky straightened up from how he was crouched over the cat carrier and drummed his fingers anxiously on the handle of his luggage. He had slept through three alarms and was dangerously close to missing his flight to LAX. He might stand a chance of making it, though, if security went quickly and the asshole in front of him could stop flirting with the bag check lady.

Bucky was distracted from his pointed glaring by his phone chiming in his pocket. He unceremoniously yanked it out from his too-tight jeans and glanced at the text. It was from Ms. Potts, whose number he’d saved in his phone the moment after he had signed the contract Friday evening.

It was now three days later, late Tuesday morning, exactly one week since the job offer. Bucky was honestly pretty excited about it, so excited that he’d called up his department head almost immediately after reviewing the snippets of material he’d been sent; they were interesting, and, truly, Bucky needed a break from his studio apartment and lame solo museum visits. He wanted excitement, he wanted his colleagues to respect him, and this “consulting” job was the ticket to that.

It seemed as though the universe wanted him to take the job, too, with the way all the cards fell into place seemingly too easily -- all of Bucky’s attempts to organize his life for a temporary move seemed to do everything short of buying him a plane ticket in order to get him out of New York.

Like his first affair-arranging phone call to his department at Columbia. The department chair had all but shoved Bucky out the door, literally saying that as long as Bucky came back in January, she could care “fuck-all about his quarter-life crisis.”

Having been with approval from his job, his next call had been to his parents. They were certainly less happy to see him go, claiming that Bucky living two hours car ride from them was integral to their relationship, even though Bucky hadn’t even seen them once since Passover, back in early April. But after Bucky argued that, they’d done a quick 180, telling Bucky that the world was his oyster and all that bullshit, even subscribing to a care package service while Bucky was still on the line with them so that he’d feel “at home” once he got to LA.

Bucky then had to talk to his building super who shoved him out even more definitively than Columbia had, telling him through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke that as long as the bills for rent kept coming, Bucky was welcome to do whatever he damn well pleased.

Bucky himself had done the final blow to push himself out of New York and toward LA, calling Ms. Potts late Thursday night and signing the contract and numerous NDAs within an hour, scanning over them as carefully as he could through his elation at this opportunity. His flight had been booked on Friday, a cat-friendly apartment complex rented and paid for, and a private car arranged to pick him up from the airport and transport him from the airport to his temporary apartment to set and back again. Daily. This had all happened in the space of less than two business days! Bucky had never been treated like this, so prompt and attentive, and, goddamn, could he get used to it.

The text he’d just gotten from Ms. Potts was just another example of how ridiculously hospitable Stark Pictures had been. It read simply, “Can’t wait to meet in person! Have a great flight.”

Despite his best attempts to push his anxieties to the back of his mind, Bucky was still a little on edge about the move, though, if he was being honest. He hadn’t, despite numerous Google searches telling him that Pepper Potts was exactly who she claimed to be and that she was helping produce a film about WWI, quite gotten rid of the suspicion that he was going to land at LAX and immediately be taken to a dark alley and get his kidneys stolen.

“Oh, God, what if they steal Eustace’s kidneys too?” Bucky suddenly gasped, phone forgotten, looking down at the bright blue carrier clutched tightly in his right hand.

“What? Sir!” a perplexed voice called out. Bucky shook himself out of his reverie, looking up and seeing the bag check lady staring at him quizzically.

Bucky blushed a bright pink and hurried over to the counter. “Jesus, everyone in line must think that I’m a fucking organ-stealing weirdo,” Bucky whispered under his breath.

Bucky placed the cat carrier onto the pavement as gently as possible and hefted his huge bag onto the scale. He hadn’t known which clothes to bring or what the weather would even be like, so Bucky had just decided to bring everything. Admittedly, it wasn’t his smartest idea, but at least he’d be prepared, Bucky had reasoned.

His preparedness was biting him in the ass, now; the bag came out to almost seventy-five fucking pounds. Bucky forked over the extra cash for an overweight bag without a second thought; he had to catch his plane -- he didn’t have the time to haggle over bag charges.

The woman slipped an overweight tag on the bag and, after boredly (and entirely too slowly in Bucky’s not-so-humble opinion) scanning Bucky’s ID and pre-printed boarding pass, a tag for LAX.

“Have a great day, sir,” she said, trying and failing to gracefully shove Bucky’s bag onto the conveyor belt behind her. Bucky almost didn’t hear her -- he was too busy picking up an angrily whining Eustace and rushing to security.

Security, thank God, was going relatively smoothly. Bucky toed off his beat up navy sneakers, successfully wrestled his belt, his phone, his wallet, and his keys into the three plastic bins he’d gotten without twisting himself too painfully, and was honestly moving relatively efficiently for how many things he was juggling. 

To complete the purging of his stuff that enabled him to walk through the metal detector without getting detained or something, all Bucky had to do was put his backpack on the conveyor belt. He did this with such a lack of poise it was almost comical, making Bucky have to restrain a little snort-laugh at himself. His lack of poise wasn’t even his fault, he reasoned to himself; he had a bum shoulder and an insanely overstuffed backpack, filled with everything from cat food to his laptop to three novels (Bucky was a fast reader and hated being bored, but even he could admit that he’d overpacked).

Bucky smiled at himself as he gently set the cat carrier down; besides his kidney comments and utter lack of grace, Bucky was keeping it together remarkably well despite his tardiness, even managing to keep his cool despite the fact that he was walking on bare, dirty-ass floor with only his socks between the soles of his feet and the germs that coated the floor of JFK.

As he unzipped the cat carrier, Bucky quietly swore to himself that he would buy himself a fucking huge iced coffee when he landed; he’d fucking earned it.

The only real issue Bucky faced with security was Eustace. Eustace hated having to be picked up, hated it so much that Bucky was worried about his face being clawed as he tried to walk through the metal detector. Bucky was running too late to overthink it -- he just slipped his angry baby a treat and carefully unlatched the cat carrier, extracting a disgruntled Eustace. 

Bucky kept scritching behind her ears and under her chin as he walked toward the metal detector, even managing to keep himself from blushing at all the people (mainly little kids) who were cooing at Eustace now that he’d been freed from his (very expensive, very well-maintained, very well-furnished with toys, very well-blanketed) prison and was visible by the throng of people trying to get through security around Bucky.

Bucky stood on line behind the other people being forced through the scanner, pleading to whatever god was listening that this went faster; both Eustace’s patience and the time before Bucky’s flight were rapidly running out.

“Step on through,” a TSA agent finally told him.

Bucky sighed with relief as he began to walk through. “You got this, buddy,” Bucky murmured under his breath. “Just you and me. No one’s gonna steal our kidneys, bud.” 

Bucky kept mumbling similar sentiments, unsure whether he was reassuring Eustace or himself. Whichever it was, it worked. They walked through with no problems, Eustace even managing to hold back his angry meows.

The only incident occurred when Eustace hacked a hairball onto Bucky’s backpack before Bucky could wrangle him back into the cat carrier. Bucky wiped it up with a tissue from his pocket and tried to read the gesture as simple overexcitement, not revenge at Bucky forcing Eustace to be shuttled from his happy, warm apartment in New York all the way across the country to a random city about which Bucky knew fuck-all, but Bucky didn’t quite manage to do so.

Bucky didn’t even truly know why he was making this move, other than recognition and excitement. He just had a gut feeling that this would be worth it, had had it since even before he scrawled out his signature on the contract, but Bucky knew it might not be. 

The chance that it might not be worth it was getting to Bucky’s guilt complex. If the temporary move wasn’t worth it, Eustace was going to have to face the most ramifications. Eustace might get separation anxiety, or get homesick. Because Bucky had acted rashly, a life he was responsible for might be made worse. Bucky might have even gotten his and his cat’s kidneys stolen, or worse.

As he hefted his backpack onto his shoulders and grabbed the cat carrier, heading over to a bench so that he could put his shoes back on, Bucky’s free hand twisted a few strands of his hair, a nervous habit he could never seem to stop. He forced his hand to still and to lean down to tie his shoes, doing his best to center himself.

Bucky ran his thumbnail over his backpack strap in an attempt to ground himself as he did his best to calm down; it was too late now to do anything about the move, he tried to reason. Besides, nothing bad had even happened yet, except for a little kitty vomit, which was Bucky’s everyday, anyway.

Eustace meowed from inside the carrier, bringing Bucky back down to reality. Bucky slipped him a treat and moved on, reminding himself silently that he was too close to missing his plane to waste time dawdling and worrying.

In the army, he had to just keep shoving one foot in front of the other, never having enough time to waste wondering if he had might the right decisions. Bucky tried quietly remembering this as he hurried to the gate, arriving just before the doors closed. Euphoria chased down Bucky’s spine; he’d made it! He’d made it, despite being an obnoxiously late, fucked up, cat-obsessed weirdo.

Bucky found his seat easily, and breathed a sigh of relief that there was no one in the window. He’d get to enjoy peace and quiet and no annoying people asking him to get up so they could piss every thirty seconds.

Mood buoyed both by the promised solitude of the flight and his mental reassurances, Bucky placed Eustace down gently in the seat next to him and leaned over to buckle the seat belt around the carrier; it may have been overprotective, but there was no way Bucky was letting his fucking baby get hurt in a manner preventable by something as simple as a seatbelt.

As Bucky settled in and listened to the safety briefings, he began to relax slightly. He was going on an adventure, and it was going to be okay. No one’s kidneys were gonna get stolen, and even if they were, Stark Pictures was probably nice enough to buy him a new one, anyway.

***

The flight ended up being relatively uneventful, even boring, which was a welcome change of pace from Bucky’s frantic thoughts earlier in the day. Eustace stayed quiet after a couple treats even though he was cooped up, and Bucky’s shoulder wasn’t even seizing too bad despite the weight of all his luggage.

Bucky had even managed to relax and read a little bit, just a tawdry romance novel he’d picked up at a thrift store on a whim; he was on vacation, technically, and that meant he was gonna fucking relax.

Unloading was a little bit less of a breeze. Eustace whined angrily at being moved after having been stable for a few hours and Bucky’s arm was cramping something awful as he tried to shoulder his bag.

But, walking off the plane, and feeling the rush of warm, dry air on the jetway was all worth it. The air was never, ever dry in New York. Bucky finally didn’t feel soggy, which he didn’t even know he’d been feeling until he’d felt how this crisp air was.

Bucky felt rejuvenated with both adrenaline and genuine happiness; he was here! He’d taken the leap!

The cherry on top of Bucky’s happiness was standing by the baggage claim carousel: a man in a crisp tan suit holding a sign that said “Barnes” in clear block lettering was waiting for Bucky with a broad smile across his own face. Bucky walked up to him and gently placed the cat carrier on the ground to shake the man’s hand.

“Hi,” Bucky said, his tone brighter than he thought he was capable of, “I’m James Barnes.”

The man shook it firmly and met Bucky’s smile with a wide one of his own. “Peter Quill. Nice to meet you.” The man’s voice was calm and pleasant, and Bucky was doing an internal happy dance; he had a chauffeur! This was straight out of a fucking movie, it was so picturesque! Bucky was finally mostly over his anxiety and primarily excited, instead.

“Welcome to LA,” Quill said brightly.

“Thanks,” Bucky replied, an unrecognizably easy smile taking over his face.

“How was your flight?” Quill asked politely, beginning to turn and walk toward baggage claim with Bucky trailing a few steps behind him.

“It was pretty good,” Bucky said honestly. “Eustace was calm, which is a miracle in and of itself.” Bucky gestured vaguely toward the cat carrier so Quill would know who he was talking about, and not think Bucky was some sort of schizophrenic weirdo.

Quill barked out an easy laugh. “I bet Eustace’ll like it here,” Quill told Bucky, patting Bucky’s shoulder in a kind, fraternal sort of way. “At least, my dogs do.”

The pair arrived at the baggage carousel where Bucky’s luggage was supposed to be, Quill jockeying with a family to try to get a good place along the baggage claim.

Bucky laughed, not so much as Quill’s sort-of joke, but more just out of sheer giddiness. “I hope he does. I hope I like it too. I’ve never even been to California before,” Bucky admitted quietly. 

“Oh, you’ll love it! If you get any downtime during shooting, I have about a billion and a half recommendations for you.” 

Bucky decided he liked Quill. He liked how open and kind the man was, and how much he was going out of his way to make sure Bucky was comfortable.

“Oh, one sec,” Bucky said after seeing his hilariously overstuffed bag on the carousel, maneuvering around some people to grab it.

“Don’t worry about it,” Quill interjected, moving past Bucky and lifting the bag off of the carousel like it didn’t weigh more than fifteen pounds.

“Jesus,” Bucky gasped without thinking. “How the fuck did you lift all that?” Bucky’s eyes were wide. Even Bucky himself, who packed the damn thing, couldn’t cart that thing around without heaving it around wildly.

Quill shrugged. “Stark Pictures benefits include full service gym,” he said simply, toting the bag and walking off toward the lot. Bucky scrambled to pick up Eustace and chased after Quill, who walked incredibly fast for someone toting one of the heaviest suitcases in LA, if not the world.

“I’ve been instructed by Ms. Potts to take you directly to grab some drinks with her and a few others. Filming doesn’t start till Thursday, but Ms. Potts wants you to meet a few folks, seeing as you’re new in town and all. I’ll take your things to your apartment and be back to pick you up a few hours later. Don’t worry about Eustace -- Ms. Potts told me you had a cat, so I read a few articles. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends. I’ll send you my number once we reach the car,” Quill explained as he tapped the button for the elevator to the parking garage.

Bucky nodded. Drinks were okay. He’d get a beer and relax, take a load off after his stressful traveling. His luggage would be handled, and Bucky felt assured that Eustace would be safe -- Quill was a professional, he reminded himself, trying to stave off any anxiety about leaving his cat with an almost-stranger.

“Ms. Potts is fucking thoughtful, huh?” Bucky said as he appreciated the fact that Ms. Potts had not only gotten him a cat-friendly apartment, but also an opportunity to make some friends so he wasn’t lonely. He shuffled toward the opening elevator doors, smiling softly to himself.

“She certainly is,” Quill agreed, wheeling Bucky’s suitcase into the elevator and tapping the button for the very bottom floor of the garage.

“So what does she actually do, ya know, other than being really polite and finding film consultants?” Bucky asked, trying to make conversation, but probably just prying.

Quill shrugged. “Spend Tony’s money,” he joked as the elevator came to a gentle stop.

Bucky’s eyes widened. “Wait, like Tony Stark?!” Bucky called incredulously, chasing after Quill who had taken off like a bullet yet again.

“Yeah,” Quill said simply, walking toward the far end of the nearly empty garage. “They’ve been dating for like ten years.”

Bucky had to keep himself from actually gasping. That certainly had not come up in Bucky’s Internet stalking of Ms. Potts.

“Legit?” Bucky asked.

Quill laughed again. “Yeah. They try to keep it private, but they’re dating. It’s a company not-so-secret.” 

Bucky shook his head. He was way out of his depth. He, travel-haggard and greasy-haired, was about to have drinks with the woman in a dedicated long-term relationship with one of the richest men in the history of ever. 

Quill must have noticed Bucky’s sudden pallor, because he clapped Bucky gently on the shoulder. “You’ll do great, bud. Ms. Potts is as kind as she is beautiful. Besides, you already signed the contract; she can’t kick you out now,” Quill teased. 

Bucky did his best to listen to Quill, but he was still heartbreakingly nervous. That is, until Quill finally slowed in front of the most sexy car Bucky had ever seen: a gorgeous, gleaming, jet black BMW.

“Jesus,” Bucky breathed out, anxiety temporarily forgotten, watching Quill toss his suitcase into the open trunk. Bucky shrugged off his backpack and put it in the trunk next to the suitcase and stood back to marvel at the beautiful vehicle laid out before him.

The car was black as sin, with chrome tires and, as Bucky realized as he slipped into the backseat and buckled himself and Eustace in, a cream-colored buttery leather interior softer than Eustace’s fur as a kitten.

Bucky was by no means a car geek, but holy shit, you’d have to be a fucking idiot not to recognize and appreciate how motherfucking gorgeous this goddamn vehicle was.

“Can I borrow your phone?” Quill asked. Bucky unlocked it and handed it over, too distracted by the car to question Quill’s intentions. Quill handed it back to him after a few moments, his contact saved on the screen.

Bucky had a private driver. Holy shit.

Bucky’s elation continued as Quill started the car and it purred softly under Bucky’s ass, so soft and sexy it practically turned Bucky on.

Shit, Bucky thought to himself. Getting turned on by a fucking car? “Get a hold of yourself, Barnes,” Bucky whispered to himself, taking off his glasses and cleaning them against his shirt just for something to do, choosing to ignore the fact that they weren’t even really dirty.

Bucky realized he hadn’t even sanitized his hands since the middle of the flight because he’d been so overwhelmed. Bucky pulled out the small travel bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket, and squirted out a dime-sized dollop, wiping his hands neatly against each other until the lemony scent of the sanitizer wafted up to his nose.

When Bucky shoved the sanitizer back in his pocket, he glanced up and legitimately gasped at the view out the window. The sun was slowly setting over an incredible skyline, lined with actual, literal palm trees.

Bucky hadn’t seen a real palm tree since he was in Florida when he was in sixth grade for a school trip. It was beautiful, the hills in the distance and the warm orange-pink glow of sunset, and the glittering of buildings as they slowly began to turn on their lights. Bucky couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen a sunset not pieced together from the gaps between skyscrapers.

“Holy shit,” Bucky mumbled, a huge grin nearly splitting his face in half despite his anxiety.

“Nice, huh?” Quill said from the front seat. “You never quite get used to how beautiful it is.”

“Seriously,” Bucky mumbled, twisting his fingers together as his anxiety about the drinks twisted his gut. 

They drove in silence, Bucky marveling out the window like a little kid and trying to keep from anxiety-vomiting, the radio playing the Dodgers game a quiet lull in the background.

After about twenty minutes, Quill turned off the highway toward a smaller, tree lined road. 

Bucky’s heart started pounding harder as he realized that they were getting closer to the bar and the girlfriend of an insanely rich and influential man. Blood roared deafeningly in Bucky’s ears.

Quill made eye contact with Bucky in the rearview mirror almost in response to Bucky’s realization that they were getting close and slipped him an easy smile. “Don’t worry about the drinks, man. Ms. Potts has almost definitely assembled the nicest people in Hollywood. They’ll probably be charmed by your nerdiness and say it’s ‘quaint,’” Quill reassured easily.

Bucky gulped softly. 

“Ms. Potts bought me a fucking cat-friendly apartment,” Bucky whispered to himself under his breath. “She wouldn’t throw me to the sharks.”

Way, way too soon for Bucky’s taste, they came to a trendy restaurant in what looked like a shopping district. Bucky had been so nervous he hadn’t even noticed the shift from quiet residential neighborhood to bustling shopping area. Quill pulled the car to a stop in front of a trendy-looking Asian-style bar.

“I’ll be back to grab you in a few hours,” Quill said, making eye contact with Bucky in the rearview mirror. “If you need me sooner, just call me. You have my info,” Quill reminded him

Bucky nodded, feeling almost lightheaded as he whispered a goodbye to Eustace and exited the car, trying not to look too sick as the last warm glow of sunlight enveloped him as he approached the entrance. Bucky yanked open the stupidly heavy chrome door with his good arm and entered the restaurant.

“James!” a familiar shouted almost as soon as Bucky had pried open the door. Bucky turned. A gorgeous blond woman in a tight green dress was beaming at him and walking toward him with her arms outstretched.

She wrapped him up in a hug before Bucky could even process that this woman was Pepper Potts, the girlfriend of Tony fucking Stark.

“It’s so nice to meet you in person!” Ms. Potts said brightly. Bucky immediately felt reassured; this was the same conscientious woman he’d spoken to on the phone. She was just as kind and bright in person.

“You too,” Bucky said, feeling like he was floating above his body.

“Was your flight okay? I made sure to get you and Eustace a seat alone so you could stretch out,” Ms. Potts said, keeping a friendly hand wrapped around his bicep.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Potts. It was great,” Bucky said, genuinely surprised and impressed that she’d remembered something as obscure as his cat’s name.

“Of course. And, please, call me Pepper.”

Bucky nodded, swallowing the dry lump of nerves in his throat.

“I brought a few of my friends for you to hang out with tonight, just to get to know some people around town since you’re so new here. I wanted to make sure you had some friends,” Pepper explained, taking his hand and dragging him to a huge table in the middle of the restaurant.

A flurry of introductions followed, Mr. Something and Ms. Whatever. Bucky was so overwhelmed with politeness and nervousness that their names passed through Bucky’s ears and drifted into nothingness just as quickly as they were spoken, their handshakes firm but also forgettable.

That is, until a firm, calloused grip took his hand. Bucky glanced up to make eye contact with the man connected to the hand.

Bucky actually gasped, like he was some socialite on a shitty soap opera.

For the second time in as many weeks, Bucky was making eye contact with the inimitable Steve fucking Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't get enough of Bucky as a cat-dad lmao


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

“Um,” Bucky mumbled, his throat painfully dry.

“Hi,” Steve Rogers said brightly. “I’m Steve.”

Bucky’s knees felt like water, and it took everything in him to keep standing. “Oh,” Bucky mumbled lamely, still begging his brain to have some form of executive function. “I-I’m Bucky.” Bucky wanted to slap himself in response to his stuttering. Stuttering was no way to talk to the hottest man on the fucking planet, if not the universe.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.” Steve Rogers said, as if speaking was the easiest thing in the world.

Bucky was mush. He was an ugly, congealed, travel-worn pile of mush, about to fall to the ground with a wet slap in the middle of a fancy, trendy restaurant that would probably have to call a special cleaning service that specialized in bio-hazards to mop him off the floor. “You too,” Bucky said after probably too long a pause, his eyes still wide as saucers, any attempt at coming across as casual absolutely ruined.

Suddenly, Bucky’s brain cut through the mush. Steve Rogers might recognize him. He might see Bucky for who Bucky was -- the stupid idiot who’d doused Steve and his T-shirt with an iced coffee. The dude who had stuttered and had stared at Steve’s pecs for an awkwardly long time, long enough that Steve Rogers himself, who probably spent more time being photographed than he did shitting, felt uncomfortable and objectified. 

Time felt like it was slowed down to the pace of molasses for Bucky; like in battles in Dungeons and Dragons, where each round was six seconds in the game but took twenty minutes in the real world. Bucky was so distracted that he almost forgot to notice how nice Steve Rogers’s hand felt against his own, calloused and warm and with a firm grip.

Bucky’s eyes desperately searched Steve Rogers’s as he fought for control of himself. God, Steve’s eyes were so blue. Like, obnoxiously blue. Like, Gatorade blue. Fuck, Barnes, stay focused, Bucky thought sharply. Steve’s eyes seemed sincere and blank; there was no hint of recognition there. Thank fuck. Now, assured that he was safe and that Steve wasn’t gonna disgustedly toss him into the nearest gutter, Bucky could focus solely on getting in those incredibly tight jeans.

Woah, cowboy -- get it together, Barnes, Bucky thought to himself. You have a Ph-fucking-D. You are a badass bitch. You can be professional, even if you’re talking to a hot guy. The hottest guy. The guy who was going to make Bucky melt into a puddle of adoration and attraction at his feet despite Steve Rogers himself doing absolutely nothing except saying hi.

Bucky was shaken from his reverie when somehow both way too soon and way too late, Steve Rogers politely withdrew his hand and moved toward the end of a long table in the middle of the restaurant, eventually sitting down one space away from Pepper. As everyone else sat down and the space remained empty, Bucky realized with a cold sweat that that chair, the one next to Steve Rogers, was supposed to be Bucky’s.

Oh, fuck. Double fuck. He smelled like airport and cat treats, and he was supposed to sit next to Steve Rogers? Holy fuck.

Bucky walked over to the table and sat down, trying to make it look like he wasn’t literally shaking.

“All I’m saying is that the costume is itchy, okay,” Steve Rogers, on Bucky’s left, was saying to Pepper, on Bucky’s right, as Bucky slid into his seat.

Bucky was next to the hottest man and one of the richest women in the history of ever, and they were just talking. Casually. Like it was nothing. Like they could just open their mouth produce understandable syllables. Like the mere act of speaking wasn’t literally, physically impossible to do.

Meanwhile, sat in between them, alarm klaxons screamed in Bucky’s ears. He couldn’t even form a coherent thought, let alone say a coherent sentence, making his one really great trait, his intelligence, seem nonexistent. He was supposed to be here because he was smart, but now his first impression to Pepper, his boss, was going to be one of awkward silence and social ineptitude and general stupidity.

It was so bad that Bucky literally praised God for granting him a fucking miracle when a waitress came by and he was able to order himself a beer without his voice quivering dramatically.

Pepper and Steve ordered their respective gin martini and scotch so frustratingly easily, like they mingled with celebrities every day (they probably did, actually), and then just kept talking around Bucky.

Despite his jealousy that they could speak so easily and so eloquently, Bucky was honestly grateful. If they kept talking, he wouldn’t have to. He could just be silent and stare at the wood grain on the table and pretend that he wasn’t about to cry with nervousness.

A part of Bucky, the obsessive fan part, wanted to turn his gaze, look up from the wood grain, and watch Steve Rogers’s expressions as Steve conversed, get lost in those cornflower blue eyes, but if Bucky did, he’d be staring. So Bucky kept his gaze trained on the table, eventually moving his eyes to the label of his beer bottle once it came, studying it’s construction as he picked at it with his thumbnail, trying to rip it off in as few pieces as possible.

“We’re being rude,” Pepper said out of nowhere. “How’re you doing, James?”

Bucky nearly choked on his beer in surprise. Why did Pepper have to be so considerate! Bucky couldn’t talk! Bucky couldn’t make eye contact with these people. Bucky was happy with his alarm klaxons and wood grain and label-picking!

“James?” Steve Rogers inquired, clearly confused since Bucky had of course forgotten professionalism and introduced himself as Bucky, an unprofessional-ass nickname. Bucky heard Steve Rogers’s chair move and guessed that Steve Rogers had shifted to make better eye contact with him. Because of course Steve Rogers would be considerate and thoughtful and caring enough to look at some random stranger who’d ruined his shirt just a week earlier and had jerked off to his picture and seen his entire filmography just because he was in it when that stranger was speaking.

“It’s, um, my first name. Bucky’s just a, um, nickname,” Bucky stammered, taking a drink just so Steve couldn’t see his hands shaking.

Bucky tried to will himself to be a functioning person and make eye contact with Steve, succeeding about ten seconds too late for it not to be weird. And of course Bucky flushed bright pink when he saw how intently Steve was looking at him.

“And, um, I’m doing well, Pepper,” Bucky said, shifting his gaze to the somehow less intimidating Pepper Potts in an attempt to give himself a break and hide his blush from Steve. At least he was being polite and answering Pepper’s question, Bucky reasoned, even though he’d answered Steve Rogers’s first and was answering Pepper’s about ten seconds too late for it not to be weird.

“That’s great!” Pepper said brightly, as if she was truly glad that Bucky was doing well. 

Bucky smiled, but it probably looked more like a grimace, judging by the way Pepper’s face shifted.

“So, Bucky, I have to ask: how does one go from being honorably discharged to a full professor in just ten years?” Pepper asked, leaning toward Bucky, her chin in her hand as she took a sip of her martini.

Bucky was flushed even brighter now, and he felt a trickle of sweat creep down his collar. It was like he had taken his boyfriend to meet his parents; his boyfriend sitting quietly while parents extolled Bucky’s virtues and Bucky sitting back, gripped by nausea.

Did Bucky just call Steve Rogers his boyfriend?! Even if it was in his mind, even if it was in metaphor form, even if it was just so that Bucky could try to explain to himself how awkward he was feeling, that was so far beyond not okay it was making Bucky feel sick. Steve was a fucking stranger!!! Bucky was meeting Steve Rogers for the first time ever (embarrassing himself at the museum didn’t fucking count). This was creepy. Bucky was so, so, so creepy.

He wanted to bury his face in his hands and call Quill and run away screaming, but if he did then he’d have to explain why he’d done so to Pepper and Steve, and that would be even worse than sitting here. At least sitting here, Steve didn’t know that Bucky had pictured his own ass being pounded into by Steve Rogers on multiple occasions.

Oh god, and now Bucky was gonna pop a boner in the middle of what was effectively a business dinner. Fucking fuck. Bucky had fucked himself. He couldn’t even get black-out drunk in a misguided attempt to forget this whole thing because it was a business dinner and Bucky had to be professional.

Bucky also wasn’t able to just hop back on a plane to New York and live life as a quiet professorial recluse; he had signed a legally-binding contract. His only option was to sit and talk and pretend like he hadn’t fantasized about the man to his left for literal years.

“Um,” Bucky stammered, taking a deep breath and trying to steel himself against his intrusive thoughts so he could finally answer Pepper’s question about his career. “I had always loved history, so, um, I decided to look into it once I got out of the army. I’ve been type A since before I can even remember, and I guess my work history reflects that. I like being the best at what I do.” It slipped out of Bucky’s mouth before he could catch it. He sounded like the cockiest, douchiest asshole on the planet, and he was surrounded by Hollywood bigwigs, who were supposedly the cockiest and douchiest of them all.

“That sounded really self-important. I’m sorry,” Bucky blurted again, chugging his beer so he didn’t have to look at anyone.

To Bucky’s astonishment, Steve and Pepper were laughing lightly.

“The fact that you think that’s self-important is the best evidence I’ve seen that this is your first time in LA,” Pepper said through a snort that she somehow made seem polished and cute.

Bucky flushed even deeper and anxiously pulled out his hand sanitizer from his pocket, rubbing it into his knuckles with a little more zeal than necessary, just for another excuse not to look up at Steve and Pepper, who weren’t quite laughing at him, but weren’t exactly laughing with him, either.

“We don’t mean it in a bad way, man,” Steve said, placing his hand on Bucky’s bicep, just above the elbow, ever-so-lightly. Bucky practically shivered, and then kicked himself.

Steve meant absolutely nothing by that, Bucky reminded himself. Steve was probably just a kind, tactile person who noticed how uncomfortable Bucky was. Of course, Steve almost definitely didn’t realize the reason Bucky was so uncomfortable, and he very much definitely would not be this kind if he knew why Bucky was so, so nervous. Bucky felt way, way too conscious of the touch, and tried to shift his body naturally so Steve’s hand would withdraw. Either Steve got the hint, or, more likely, he just realized how gross and weird Bucky was, because he slid his hand back easily.

“I mean, last week, I was at this party, and this chick came up to me, and we were, um, chatting.” Was that a blush painting Steve Rogers’s high cheekbones?! “And she, um, made a few moves on me, and I said I wasn’t into it, and she cited her goddamn number of followers on Instagram as the reason why we should sleep together,” Steve said, laughing and taking a sip of his scotch.

Bucky laughed lightly and tried not to let his expression fall at the implication from “chatting” that Steve was into fucking this woman, and, therefore, maybe straight. It wasn’t like Bucky had a chance with him, anyway. But if he did. . .

Bucky wanted to literally scream at his dick to shut up, but that would just serve to make him look more insane than he already seemed. Instead, Bucky just flicked open and shut the cap of his hand sanitizer absent-mindedly and tried to focus on Pepper instead of his anxiety and/or twitching cock.

“Really?” Pepper laughed softly. “I was at this charity auction a few weeks ago and a man told me to bid on his painting because it was better than the ‘shitty’ Rembrandt I was there for,” Pepper said, her perfectly manicured fingers twisting into air quotes.

That made Bucky laugh a little harder, forgetting himself a tiny bit and opening his shoulders slightly, relaxing from his default curled-in defensive position.

“A director once tried to get me to do her film just because she had three Oscars. She didn’t even frame it that nicely. When I asked her why the film mattered, she just e-mailed me a picture of them!” Steve said, giggling.

Bucky belly-laughed at that, his grip loosening on the hand sanitizer as he relaxed.

“You’re joking!” Pepper said, draining the rest of her martini.

“Honest to God,” Steve replied, holding his hands up as if to demonstrate he wasn’t hiding anything, his near-empty glass clutched in his left hand.

“God. If I guess who it is, will you tell me?” Pepper looked positively devilish, leaning forward in her chair with an evil glint in her eye.

“You’re welcome to find out,” Steve whipped back.

Bucky smiled and sipped his beer, disappointed when he realized that it was almost empty.

The waitress came over and Bucky was about to ask for another beer, but before he could, Pepper started ordering, rapid-fire. It sounded like she was getting one of everything, at least. Bucky wondered briefly how the hell he was supposed to afford this when he remembered that this lady was dating Tony fucking Stark, and she was possibly gonna cover the tab.

“Hey, Bucky, could I steal some of that?”

Bucky almost bit his tongue with how startled he was at that quiet voice.

Faster than warp speed, Bucky’s anxieties were back. He curled his shoulders forward again, as though he was protecting his center from an angry predator and ducked his head toward his chest. Steve speaking directly to him had that much of an effect. Bucky needed to get it together, and fast.

“S-some of what?” Bucky asked, looking over at Steve. At least he was managing to hold eye contact without feeling like he was dying.

“The hand sanitizer. I absolutely hate getting sick, and I don’t wanna be rude and excuse myself just to wash my hands,” Steve explained, his posture easy and open and relaxed.

Bucky blushed (when the fuck was he gonna be a fucking adult and stop fucking doing that?!) and passed the bottle to Steve, shyly shoving his glasses up his nose to avoid staring at Steve’s gorgeous hands like the creepo he was.

“Thanks,” Steve said, passing the bottle back to Bucky.

“No prob,” Bucky mumbled, because, really, it wasn’t. But Steve probably expected him to say “you’re welcome” or something infinitely more polite than “no prob.” Bucky had probably shoved his foot in his mouth and Steve was gonna think that Bucky was rude in addition to being stupid and a terrible conversationalist.

“So,” Steve said, drumming his fingers on his chin like he wasn’t really thinking about it, “have any tips for me? You know, in terms of historical accuracy?”

Bucky put two and two together faster than he’d ever had in his life. If Bucky’d had any spit left in his dry-ass mouth he would have either choked on it, or, more likely, would have spat it all over Steve.

“You’re in the movie?!” Bucky exclaimed, definitely too loudly for any sort of civilized setting.

Steve just smiled, the delicate-looking skin around his eyes crinkling. “Yeah. I’m the lead, bro. Why’d you think Pepper asked all of us here?”

Bucky shrugged and started picking at the beer label again. “Quill said it was so I could make friends,” he said in a small voice.

Steve laughed and wrapped a hand around Bucky’s shoulder, just the left one, resting lightly on it. Steve’s fingers were curling toward Bucky’s collarbone, the heel of his hand pressed against Bucky’s shoulder blade. Bucky stopped breathing completely, his eyes wide as saucers, his heart roaring in his chest. He was gonna die. He was gonna fucking implode. In front of Steve Rogers, whose light touch had pulled Bucky into a fraternal little huddle. Jesus fucking shit. Bucky gulped and tried to stay focused and present, to enjoy this before he woke up from this dream in his shitty studio apartment in New York with the inside of his boxers covered in spunk.

“That,” Steve said, pointing across the table with his free hand to a blond man who was laughing and drinking a Sprite, “is Clint Barton. He’s been the Key Makeup Artist for every film Stark Pictures has done for the past ten years.”

Bucky nodded, trying to ignore the goosebumps that were riddling his neck and shoulders wherever Steve was making contact with him as well as the temptation to nuzzle his head into Steve’s chest.

“And she,” Steve said, turning and pointing to an absolutely gorgeous redhead, “is Natasha Romanov. She’s the cinematographer for the film. She has four Oscars and six Globes.”

“Jesus,” Bucky breathed softly. How the fuck did Steve know all this? Was he some kind of Internet stalker too, or was this kinda stuff just common knowledge in Hollywood?

“He,” Steve murmured, now turning to an older guy with a literal eye patch, “is Nick Fury. He may look a little eccentric, but he’s exec produced every, and I mean every Stark Pictures film with a fresh score on Rotten Tomatoes.”

Bucky was feeling even more out of his depth than he had been before as Steve whipped around the table, providing biographies for the dozen or more people there. Bucky wanted to go back home and cry; he couldn’t do this! He was just a nobody from Brooklyn! He couldn’t mingle with celebrities!

“And these were the ‘friends’ Pepper wanted me to make?” Bucky choked out.

Steve pulled back his hand from Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky sort of missed the contact, but appreciated the fact that his cognitive function was no longer as impaired as it was when Steve was touching him.

“How do you think these people got all this status, Bucky?” Steve said, gesturing widely.

“They’re good at what they do?” Bucky guessed.

Steve huffed out a gorgeous little snort. “Well, yeah, that too. But mostly because they’re nice,” Steve explained, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “People like working with them, so they get work.”

“So you’re nice, too, then?” Bucky challenged before he could stop himself.

Oh, shit! He was just snarky to Steve Rogers! Bucky was so, so stupid. What if Steve got mad? He was supposed to be working for this man, and Bucky might have just jeopardized that whole relationship!

But Steve just chuckled good-naturedly. “I mean, I hope I’m nice,” he said, smiling broadly.

Bucky just gave a smile back, albeit one a little smaller and shyer than Steve’s.

Bucky absolutely couldn’t believe it. He was just gabbing with Steve Rogers, the insanely sexy victim of Bucky’s clumsiness just a week earlier, and they were getting along. Despite the fact that Bucky was gonna have to toss out years’ worth of masturbatory fantasies and attempt to find new ones due to how creepy they now were, Bucky was even enjoying himself.

The food Pepper ordered interrupted Bucky from his thoughts. He dug into the seemingly infinite amount of sushi, letting Steve and Pepper talk around him and occasionally jumping in when he wanted to, no longer feeling pressured to speak nor pressured to stay quiet.

Somehow too soon, Bucky’s phone pinged. It was from Quill, simply stating that he was out front.

Bucky chugged down the last third of his second beer and pulled out his wallet. But before he could pull out the two twenties that he figured would cover his portion, Pepper put her soft, small hand over his.

Bucky looked at her and narrowed his eyes in confusion.

Pepper just smiled kindly. “I’m treating you, Bucky. It’s your first night in town; I figured you deserved something nice.”

Bucky shook his head. She was a near-stranger; she couldn’t pay for his food!

“Pepper, don’t worry about it. I got it,” Bucky said, reaching his hand back inside the wallet.

“Bucky, seriously. It’s the company card -- consider it a business dinner.”

“Are you sure?” If there was one thing Bucky knew, it was that there was no such thing as a free lunch -- this was gonna bite him in the ass someday.

Pepper nodded. “Of course. Now, I think I see Mr. Quill out the window. Have a good night. I’ll see you bright and early!”

Bucky stood up, but before he could go, Steve suddenly turned and put a hand on Bucky’s forearm, stopping him from leaving.

“It was nice meeting you, Bucky,” Steve said, shaking Bucky’s other hand like he was some dapper gentleman from the ‘40s while keeping the grip on Bucky’s forearm. Bucky wanted to laugh at him, but Steve’s gaze was like a vice -- warm, but intensely, incredibly gripping. It was the same gaze that, pictured in numerous magazines, had made Bucky come in his pants more times than he’d care to admit.

Bucky stared down at his feet, almost embarrassed to meet Steve’s eyes. It took him a beat, but Bucky looked up just a bit, to where Steve was sitting below him. Steve’s eyes were still locked on him like he was the most important thing in the room.

“Yeah. You too,” Bucky mumbled lamely, dropping Steve’s handshake and swiftly exiting the restaurant. The back of his neck was prickly with sweat and heat and something akin to lust, but Bucky wasn’t quite uncomfortable with it and just refused to acknowledge it.

He walked over to that gorgeous obsidian BMW purring outside of the restaurant, and slipped into the backseat, buckling himself in before looking ahead to make eye contact with Quill in the rearview mirror.

“Have a nice time?” Quill asked politely.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “A really nice time.” That is, barring his anxiety and weird, prolonged eye contact with Steve at the end, there.

“That’s great! I told you, man, Pepper’s a nice-ass lady.”

Bucky smiled widely, and let Quill whisk him off toward his brand-spanking-new apartment.

After about twenty minutes of Bucky marveling at the LA skyline and half-listening to a post-game talk show on the radio, the car pulled to a quiet stop inside a nondescript parking garage, empty except for about four other cars scattered around and a chrome elevator about twenty feet away from the car.

Quill turned off the engine and turned around to look at Bucky.

“You’re apartment 503,” Quill said, passing Bucky a simple metal key on a blue plastic keychain. “You need to be at set at nine sharp, so I’ll meet you right here to pick you up around eight, maybe take you to Starbucks or something so you can eat, ‘cause you haven’t had a chance to grab groceries yet. Until then, explore, drink, do whatever the fuck you want, as long as you’re down here, dressed and ready to work, by eight.”

Bucky nodded; he was too exhausted to do much else, the travel and the insane rush of drinks with Steve Rogers and Pepper Potts as well as numerous other high-powered film executives finally hitting him.

“Thanks so much, man,” Bucky said, truly meaning it. Quill was like Lakitu in the original Mario Kart; just helping Bucky get around and explain everything. Not that Bucky was Mario -- he wasn’t that important. Bucky was more like Luigi; just kinda there. 

Bucky was still just grateful for Quill keeping him from being totally lost that he was almost tempted to do that awkward handshake that Steve had done, but he managed to refrain.

Instead, after Quill had acknowledged Bucky’s thanks with a nod, Bucky clambered out of the car, stretched a few times, poured out a dollop of hand sanitizer and rubbed it in, and began walking toward the chrome elevator. He pressed the button to call it, and when it opened, he had to keep himself from whistling.

It was plushly carpeted in a deep red and paneled with deeply stained teak that probably cost more than a month of Bucky’s salary at Columbia. If this was any indication of how nice the apartment was gonna be, Bucky had truly lucked-the-fuck out.

The elevator rose so smoothly, it was like gliding on butter. So much better than the fourth floor walk-up back home. It dropped him off in front of an apartment, which, Bucky found out after turning the key, held true to his assumption; it was even nicer than the elevator.

It had dark hardwood floors, a living room with a huge, incredibly soft-looking couch and cozy rugs and throws and a gigantic TV. A testament to Pepper’s thoughtfulness, a litter box and a cream-colored cat tree were perched in the corner. There was even a real, honest-to-God kitchen, which was a million times better than Bucky’s shitty kitchenette at home.

There was a carpeted hallway leading toward what Bucky assumed was the bedroom, and then, glancing up, Bucky saw the best part. Massive floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city and facing west; he’d be able to see those incredible sunsets night after night.

“Fuck,” Bucky said simply, his eyes round with awe.

He stepped into the apartment and shut the door behind him. Jesus. The rent on this place must be insane, not to mention the cushy furniture and utilities. Bucky couldn’t tell if he’d rather cry, do a happy dance, or simply fall into bed and sleep.

Opting for the latter, Bucky wandered into the cream-painted bedroom, telling himself that he’d explore in the morning. His eyes widened even further as he marveled at the massive king bed in the middle of the room. It was covered in a thick, soft-looking navy comforter, and was covered with enough throw pillows for Bucky to accidentally smother himself in.

His suitcase and Eustace’s carrier were placed against the wall near a closed door, and Eustace himself was curled up, asleep, by the heating vent across the room from Bucky. Bucky let out a deep, exhausted exhale. He was probably the luckiest, though the tiredest, man alive! His stuff was safe, his baby was happily asleep, and his new apartment was stupidly nice.

Bucky crossed the room contentedly and leaned down to pet Eustace, who was purring softly within seconds of Bucky’s fingers making contact with him.

“We did it, buddy! We made it. And no one stole our kidneys,” Bucky said softly, practically cooing.

Eustace meowed like he understood, and Bucky beamed. His cat was happy, and he could finally rest.

He straightened up, ripped off his jeans and T-shirt, keeping his boxers on so he could sleep in them, and tossed his removed clothes in a vague pile by the door; he would deal with them in the morning -- he was too exhausted to do it now. He gently took off and folded his glasses, placing them on the nightstand on the right side of the bed.

Bucky then flipped open his suitcase, pulling out his toiletry bag and a soft T-shirt for sleeping. Bucky opened the closed door near his suitcase, assuming it to be the master bath. And holy shit, was he right. The bathroom was huge, the size of his whole kitchenette back home. It was tiled in navy with grout so white that even real-estate-novice Bucky could tell it was freshly laid.

There was a shower stand with one of those spouts that stood directly over you so you never had to duck to wash your face, and a gigantic bathtub, big enough for at least two grown men to sit comfortably. Bucky was set up.

He put his toiletry kit on the sink, pulled out his Stormtrooper toothbrush (he’d gotten it for free at the dentist, ok?), and brushed his teeth, softly humming the chorus of some song he couldn’t remember the name nor the verses of.

He spat his toothpaste into the sink gleefully and washed his face with the nearby hand towel, which had to be the softest goddamn hand towel known to man.

Bucky felt positively peaceful as he downed two of his nightly prescription pain meds.

As he pulled on the T-shirt and flopped into the bed, flicking off the light, Bucky realized why he was in such a good mood: not a single one of his anxieties about today had come true. Not a single one. Bucky was gonna be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates. I'm on vacation right now, so update speed might be a little wonky for a few weeks.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the wait! However, this is longer than my usual so I hope it makes up for it

“You’re kidding me, right?!” Bucky said incredulously. Before him was a spread for the gods; danishes and fruit platters and bagels and croissants and paper thin crepes covered in bananas and Nutella.

“Not at all, Bucky. Eat up,” Pepper told him confidently, grabbing a plate herself and loading it up with fruit and crepes.

Bucky was on cloud nine, had been since last night. His bed had been firm and perfect, the exact antithesis of his marshmallow back home. The shower had been boiling hot, taking no time to heat up. He hadn’t even had to duck to get the spray over his neck and head like he did at home! Quill had picked him up right on time and had even taken him to Starbucks so Bucky could grab his morning iced coffee (though, looking at the spread here, Bucky would probably be fine waiting to eat until he got to set from now on).

That sounded so fancy -- getting to set. Like he was some executive, official person with places to go and things to “consult.” His time in LA so far had felt that official, which was a little terrifying, if he was to be honest, but incredibly nice at the same time.

For example, Pepper had met Bucky and Quill at the front of the lot, and had escorted Bucky through the studio on a literal golf cart, like he was an emperor on some guided tour or something. The studio had been crazy -- a lot of huge, airplane hangar-sized buildings with nonchalant black and white signs on the front boasting the different movies being filmed there. Bucky was trying so hard to read every single title to see if he recognized it that he’d almost fallen off the golf cart twice. The tour was terrifying because the combined incomes of the people within a quarter mile radius of Bucky could’ve probably collectively financed an expedition to Mars, but nice because he was being treated like he was one of these uber-rich, fancy people.

The weird dichotomy had continued as the golf cart had come to a screeching halt in front of another airplane hangar-esque building, and Pepper had guided him into the doors, having to scan a key card to get in (Bucky would get his in the mail in the next few days, according to Pepper). The security was awesome because it was so exclusive, but terrifying for the same exact reason.

Then, when they were on the set itself, it had been even more intense. Shit on the set was fancy, unnervingly so. Everywhere Bucky turned, there was stuff; a group of people sipping coffee, a gigantic camera set-up, a long table set with so many prosthetics and types of makeup that Bucky could only recognize about half its contents, a six foot long WWI-era model submarine. There was so much tech, so many things that Bucky had never seen nor heard of before, so much so that he felt like he was in some slightly uncanny Black Mirror episode. It was nice to see the level of expertise, yet incredibly intimidating.

People were milling everywhere, and, while it was overwhelming and Bucky’d had to rub sanitizer on his hands a few more times than was polite to ensure himself that he wasn’t gonna get sick, the set was admittedly quite nice. It felt like the inside of a well-oiled machine; everyone knew where they were going, what they were doing, and why they were doing it. The niceness had almost outweighed the terror at this point.

The terror was outweighed especially with the gem before Bucky -- it was just the icing on top of an extremely fucking cool cake: craft service! A huge spread laden with food and drinks. And it was free! Christmas had fucking come early for him. Bucky had to stop a whine from keening out of the back of his throat at how excited he was.

“Okay,” Pepper said once she’d gotten her plate. “Get some breakfast, and then you should meet the director, and then we need you to make last minute expediting to some costumes, and a few test shots. We’ll grab lunch, and then see where the director needs you, okay?”

There was the terror again; Bucky felt kind of overwhelmed; he had a schedule -- people were relying on him. He was nearly tempted to run back to his incredibly nice apartment and just watch TV all day because he was so afraid of doing something wrong or disappointing someone. But Bucky managed to nod somewhat confidently in response to Pepper, grab himself his second iced coffee of the day and follow Pepper toward a somewhat secluded area of the set where a dark-haired man was engaged in what appeared to be a passionate argument, arms flailing and voices raised, with the hot redheaded lady from last night.

Bucky wracked his brain to remember who she was, his memories of last night clouded by exhaustion and Steve’s huge, warm hand resting on Bucky’s shoulder, so gentle and warm that it was practically illicit. Bucky tried to push away the thoughts of Steve’s hand in favor of recalling Steve’s careful introductions instead, to little effect. Thankfully, just before actually reaching the dark-haired man and redheaded lady, Bucky managed to put it together -- her name was Natasha, the genius cinematographer.

He didn’t think he’d met the dark haired guy with his back to Bucky before, though. But, as soon as he turned and Bucky saw that perfectly manicured beard, Bucky knew he was dead wrong.

Tony fucking Stark was standing before Bucky in a graphic tee under a blazer, an outfit which only Tony fucking Stark could manage to make look marginally less douchey than it would have been on anyone else (probably because the shirt was Gucci and the blazer was Tom Ford, but still. It was a generally douchey outfit, and Stark was making it look good). Bucky’s knees felt almost as weak as they did when he’d met Steve after the coffee-incident as his mind eventually clicked into place. This was Tony Stark. As in the famous director who owned a multiple-Oscar-winning movie studio that was worth many, many millions of dollars more than Bucky could ever hope to earn in his lifetime. Yeah, that Tony Stark.

Bucky bit his tongue to try to keep his mouth from gaping open when Pepper approached and kissed Stark on the cheek so easily and smoothly, like Stark was just some random schmoe whom Pepper happened to be dating (Bucky supposed that’s what he actually was, at least to Pepper, yet it was still unnerving to watch her kiss the richest man in Hollywood like it was nothing). Stark’s face, still masked in intensity from his argument with Natasha, now melted into a soft smile as he made eye contact with Pepper.

Bucky could see why -- Pepper was one of the most calming people Bucky had ever met. And he’d gone been on a date with a yoga instructor before. Twice.

“Hey, babe,” Stark said to Pepper, ignoring Natasha, whose lips were pursed and whose arms were crossed, clearly peeved at being cut off mid-argument. Natasha rolled her eyes and un-did her angry expression to smile at Bucky.

Bucky smiled back shyly, a little embarrassed that Natasha had recognized him so easily and it had taken him such a long moment. But, then again, Natasha didn’t have a full day of travel with a disgruntled cat and physical contact with Steve Rogers working against her memory when she’d met Bucky.

Not that Bucky was complaining. Well, he was a little, because who liked travel with a disgruntled cat, but he certainly was not complaining about physical contact with Steve. In fact, Bucky would probably be willing to shell out an embarrassing amount of cash in order to get more physical contact with Steve. He’d probably pay upwards of a thousand for a chance to hold Steve’s hand, upwards of a million for anything more.

Steve was so attractive, and so kind, to boot. Of course, Bucky wagering how much money he’d spend on Steve like he was some sort of prostitute was the exact antithesis of attractive and kind. Bucky was being really creepy. Steve was an actual person, not just a picture in a magazine for Bucky to jerk off to.

“Tony, this is our historical expert, Bucky,” Pepper said, making Bucky’s attention snap back to her. Bucky felt a hot flush rush to the tips of his ears as he realized what he’d been thinking about in front of the two people who were pretty much his bosses.

“Bucky, this is Tony. He’s the director,” Pepper explained.

Bucky probably should’ve figured that Tony Stark would be the director-- he was working with Stark Pictures, after all. But he couldn’t put two and two together, couldn’t realize that working with Stark Pictures meant that he was working for the titular Stark, the richest man Bucky could name off the top of his head.

Bucky fought the urge to respond to Pepper with “I know” and instead just took Stark’s outstretched hand and shook it, praying that his own hand wasn’t actually as sweaty as it felt to him. Stark’s hand was smaller and a little rougher than Bucky expected, but his grip was firm and sure, almost fully assuaging Bucky of his nerves.

“Nice to meet you,” Stark said.

Bucky’s nervousness soared to the back of his head, nearly forgotten. Even though Stark had just given a perfunctory response to meeting someone, Bucky was about to explode with excitement. The richest man in the history of ever thought it was nice to meet him?! That was entirely batshit.

Bucky was almost definitely grinning like a fucking lunatic as he enthusiastically shook Stark’s hand. “You too, sir. I’m a big fan of your work. The Star Trek movie you produced is my favorite in the series, actually.” It was almost definitely the wrong thing to say -- what kind of man wanted an employee of his to have a weird obsession with him? Especially when the obsession focused on a random Star Trek movie that wasn’t even made by his own company.

But Stark just grinned as he dropped Bucky’s hand and clapped him on the right shoulder just a little too hard. “I like this kid, Pepper. Good hire,” Tony said, turning back to Natasha and clearly dismissing Bucky.

Pepper smiled at Bucky and began to escort him away from Tony, who was now back to yelling in his argument, something way over Bucky’s head about camera angles. 

“Thanks for flattering Tony. You’re for sure on his good side now,” Pepper teased lightly, guiding Bucky toward an area quarantined off by a white sheet marked “wardrobe” with a white cardboard sign.

Bucky looked down at his feet and blushed, yanking out his hand sanitizer and rubbing a glob on his hands. “Everything I said was true,” Bucky mumbled lamely.

Pepper scoffed out a laugh as they reached the wardrobe curtain, and she pulled it aside so they could enter. “Don’t be self-conscious, Bucky. Tony loves to be complimented, seriously.”

“I really was being honest, though,” Bucky said, unsure of why he wanted to justify himself to Pepper so badly.

“Bucky, don’t worry. I know you’re not a kiss-ass,” Pepper replied frankly, sweeping her arm to let Bucky know that he should enter. 

Bucky’s eyes went huge as he entered the curtained-off area. The area was nearly double the size of his studio apartment back home, and every single inch was covered in racks WWI-era clothes, everything from uniforms to camisoles to even the German pickle-helms with their iconically obnoxious spires. About a dozen people were scurrying from rack to rack, scratching down notes on matching pink pads of paper. 

“Shit,” Bucky muttered.

Pepper laughed. “You like?”

Bucky nodded mutely as Pepper guided him toward a huge rack of uniforms in varying states of weathering, clearly meant to be French by the coloring.

Bucky was still stupidly amazed, in stark contrast to Pepper’s amused nonchalance, so he decided to throw himself into studying the uniforms to avoid making him seem even more dorky than he already did.

The uniforms all looked absolutely incredible, down to the seals and ranking pins sewn on the sleeve. “How do the uniforms look, Bucky? Accurate?” Pepper asked, pulling out a tablet from her purse and swiping across it quickly with her immaculately manicured index and middle fingers.

Bucky let out a weird choking sound to convey what he hoped was amazement. He was legitimately impressed, especially seeing as he couldn’t sew for shit. “They look fantastic,” Bucky said honestly. “Like, damn.”

Pepper laughed good-naturedly. “I’m glad you like them. I’d be a little concerned if you didn’t, with all the money we pour into this department,” she giggled.

Bucky smiled back, grabbing the sleeve of a uniform and rubbing the rough canvas between his fingers appreciatively.

“Okay then, if uniforms are all good, I’d love for you to look at a few test shots.”

Bucky nodded mutely, feeling a little overwhelmed to do much else.

“Test shots are just things we do to check lighting and stuff like that, but they’ll give you a good sense of what the film will look like as a whole,” Pepper explained as she lead Bucky back toward the curtain, holding it aside for him again before escorting him toward another area of the building, where a few TV screens were set up, showing Steve Rogers’s gorgeous eyes looking impossibly sad. He was wearing the gray-green uniforms of the German army, his golden hair brushed onto his forehead, making him look young and small and even sadder than he would otherwise.

Bucky wanted to reach forward into the screen and cradle those high cheekbones, make Steve feel better, but it was just a TV screen. Bucky kept his hands hanging by his sides, his eyes wide as saucers at how sweet and devastated Steve looked.

“This is a shot from when Wilhelm, Steve’s character, finds out he’s getting drafted,” Pepper explained.

Bucky was shaken out of his aesthetic appreciation of Steve’s incredibly blue eyes by Pepper’s inaccuracy. Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “When is this from?” Bucky asked, drumming his fingertips on his thigh.

Pepper glanced at Bucky in confusion.

“Like, what year does this take place?”

“1914,” Pepper replied, pulling out her tablet again.

Bucky shook his head, starting to speak before he could think about it. 

“This is wrong,” Bucky blurted. “There wasn’t a draft in 1914, for one, and, for two, people were really excited to go to war at this point. People were volunteering by the thousands.”

Pepper didn’t even look up, her fingers flying on the tablet as she typed.

Bucky suddenly felt shame coil in the pit of his stomach at how clinical he’d just sounded -- Pepper had been so, so nice to him, yet Bucky had just cut into her hard work with no considerations about how it might come across, like her work was nothing. “Um, sorry,” Bucky added lamely. He wanted to keep his job, and pointing out that one of the things Pepper had probably been most proud of was entirely historically inaccurate was a surefire way to get himself fired.

“Don’t be,” Pepper said, still not looking up. “It’s your job to tell us when things are wrong, and this is wrong.”

“What’s wrong?”

Bucky spun around, his gaze immediately grabbed by Steve Rogers looking down at Bucky and Pepper with concern etched on his face. He was wearing a gray T-shirt with a Stark Pictures logo across the chest and a pair of navy sweatpants. He must have already been through hair and makeup because his gorgeous dirty blonde hair was brushed onto his forehead, the opposite of how he normally wore it, and his cheeks and nose were smeared with soot, making his eyes look even bigger and even bluer than they already did, which was saying a lot, since they were the deep blue of a cloudless day normally.

“You acted this shot wrong,” Pepper said bluntly.

Bucky felt like he’d been stabbed in the gut with nerves. He hadn’t been criticizing Steve or Steve’s acting! He was just saying it was historically inaccurate! The way Pepper put it made it sound like he thought that Steve was a bad actor, and Bucky thought just the opposite.

“Damn,” Steve said without any venom behind it, sounding more tired than anything else. “I was jazzed about it.”

Bucky’s heart did a weird little flutter at the utterly antiquated phrase “jazzed,” but Bucky ignored it in favor of focusing on the knife twisting in his gut that the scene didn’t work out the way Steve wanted.

“Me, too, but it was inaccurate. Good job catching it, Bucky. That’s what you’re here for,” Pepper said breezily.

Bucky smiled shyly and stared down at his shoes. Being praised, especially in front of someone Bucky was as attracted to as Steve Rogers, never failed to make him uncomfortable.

Steve’s eyes were still narrowed and his brow was wrinkled, though. “I’m confused, Bucky. Isn’t war supposed to be hell and whatnot?”

Bucky’s nerves at both the praise and how gorgeous Steve was flew to the back of his mind in favor of focusing on what he was most comfortable with: history. “That understanding only happened post-WWI, really only post-Vietnam, actually,” Bucky said without thinking. “Before that, war was viewed as a glorious and effective diplomatic strategy. People were really excited to go to war.”

Steve smiled. “Yeah? I didn’t know that at all,” Steve said, his posture shifting toward Bucky and becoming a little more open. Bucky blushed lightly at how clearly interested in him Steve was.

No, Bucky chided himself, not in him. In his ideas. The day someone like Steve would be interested in someone like Bucky would be the day pigs learned to fly.

“Yeah. Um, I have these films of, uh, soldiers about to go to war in World War I, and they all are, like, cheering and stuff. They’re really cool, ‘cause they were colored, so it’s all really vibrant. It makes it feel a lot more real,” Bucky said, staring down at his shoes, silently annoyed with himself for how lame he sounded. This stuff was his forte! He should be able to discuss it like the scholar he was, not like some blushing schoolgirl.

“I’d love to see those films sometime, you know, to study for the role.”

All the color immediately drained out of Bucky’s face. Steve wanted to see his war films?! It wasn’t exactly the most sexy thing, but it still implied that Steve Rogers wanted to hang out with him, a coffee-spilling maniac who was afraid of getting his kidneys stolen.

“Um,” Bucky said, painfully tongue-tied.

“Is it okay if we hang out soon, so I can see them before filming really gets going?” Steve asked, his eyebrows raising delicately.

Oh, shit. Oh, jeez. Did Steve really have to ask to “hang out?” Couldn’t he have just asked to borrow the films or something?! Bucky was sweating so bad. He shoved his glasses up his nose, just so Steve wouldn’t see his hands shaking and jerked out a weird, halting nod. “Yeah,” Bucky mumbled after far too long a pause.

“When are you free?” Steve asked, his hand reaching out and resting on Bucky’s elbow.

Bucky tensed so bad, and jerked his elbow back like he was burned.

Steve’s smile fell a fraction of an inch, and Bucky felt a new knife twisting in him alongside the first nerves one. But this knife wasn’t made of nerves: it was made of guilt that he’d almost definitely hurt Steve’s feelings. Bucky had just wanted to be able to think again. He couldn’t think when Steve was talking to him, let alone when Steve was touching him. Bucky wanted to cry. He sounded like an idiot, and he had hurt Steve’s feelings.

Bucky glared down at his feet. “I’m free tonight,” Bucky choked out.

Stupid. That was so stupid. He hadn’t even bought groceries yet, hadn’t figured out how to turn on the TV, let alone play the films yet either, and now Steve was going to come over.

“That works out great,” Steve said calmly and brightly, like he was trying to pull Bucky back of the precipice of anxiety that Bucky was teetering over.

“Great,” Bucky choked out, trying to blink back any embarrassed tears that were threatening to fall.

“Does seven work?” Steve asked, pressing his hands into his pockets, almost like it was a reminder to keep his hands to himself.

Bucky was such a bad person -- Steve shouldn’t have to worry about keeping his hands to himself like they were in middle school or something. Bucky needed to be a fucking adult. He just nodded, too overwhelmed to say anything else.

“Can’t wait,” Steve said, turning and walking toward the wardrobe tent.

Bucky let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, desperately wanting to sob. He had been so awkward, and he had just set himself up to hang out with the hottest man on the planet for a prolonged period of time, without having time to prep himself or his house.

***

Bucky wiped his hands nervously on his jeans, trying to get any residual sweat off of them as he stared at the door to the apartment. He’d spent the past two and half hours since Quill had dropped him off at the apartment grocery shopping, setting up the TV, and trying to, against Eustace’s wishes, give Eustace a bath so that his fur didn’t smell like airport, so Bucky honestly could use a fucking nap. But that wasn’t an option because Steve Rogers was right behind this door.

The doorbell had rung almost exactly at seven, and Bucky’s anxiety, while thankful for Steve’s punctuality, was about to eat Bucky alive.

Bucky swiped his hand over his hair quickly to make sure his bun was relatively smooth as he opened the door.

Steve was standing there, as obnoxiously tall and gorgeous as ever, dressed casually in a gray hoodie and black jeans, clutching a paper bag.

“Hey,” Bucky said, managing to keep his nervous blush off his cheeks, leaning against the doorframe in what he hoped was a show of nonchalance.

Steve smiled, bright and genuine. “Hey. I brought dinner. I figured, ‘cause I kinda invited myself over, that you deserved some free food.”

Bucky laughed a little, half of it genuine and half of it born of nerves. “You didn’t invite yourself over,” Bucky reassured, trying to be as gracious, even though Steve kind of had invited himself over. Bucky leaned back, inviting Steve in with a broad sweep of his arm.

Steve walked in, kicked off his sneakers, and made a beeline toward the counter of the kitchen that was visible from the doorway to the apartment. Steve placed the bag on the granite countertop and began to extricate several take-out boxes. “I got Italian -- I hope that’s okay,” Steve said as Bucky locked the door.

Bucky took a deep breath. He could be normal. He could be a normal person who was hanging out with another normal person as they ate Italian food together. 

“That’s great. Who doesn’t like Italian?” Bucky called, walking over to the kitchen to grab the purple plates and silverware that Pepper had bought him, which he’d found while he was putting away groceries. 

“Celiacs?” Steve teased.

Bucky blushed, internally screamed at himself for blushing, and shrugged good-naturedly. “I guess,” Bucky replied lamely.

He passed Steve the plates, and noted the bottle of wine Steve must have placed on the counter. The expensive-looking bottle of wine.

Bucky couldn’t drink that; he straight-up could not accept that wine without being an uber-asshole. If he accepted it, he’d be drinking wine incredibly, stupidly out of his budget, judging by the fancy French label. That’d just be using Steve for his money, which was one step away from extortion.

So when Steve looked up at him and innocently inquired where the wine glasses were, something in Bucky’s chest seized. He, for one, could not drink that fancy-ass win, and, for two, honestly had no idea where the wine glasses were; he hadn’t had enough time to investigate and find them.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?” Bucky asked, gripping the edge of the counter for a semblance of stability, knuckles going pale.

Steve laughed again, a big belly laugh. “Honestly?”

Bucky just nodded, a soft smile playing on his own lips.

“I guess I can’t blame you. You did only get in yesterday.” Steve slid past Bucky and began to open up the cabinets and try to find the wine glasses.

“That sounds dangerously close to saying that I was born yesterday,” Bucky quipped, able to be slightly more of a person now that he didn’t have to make actual eye contact with Steve.

“Nah. You know way too much about World War I for that to be the case,” Steve said.

Bucky’s arms wrapped around his torso in a protective manner. The way Steve had said that made it sound like he was tired of Bucky. Bucky had just wanted to do a good job with his consulting; he hadn’t meant to annoy Steve with his knowledge.

“It’s not a bad thing.”

Bucky’s eyes shot up. Steve was looking at him with all traces of humor gone from his eyes -- he looked way too serious, and almost concerned, judging by the way his brows were knit; that was making Bucky even more nervous.

“You’re smart, Bucky. It’s good, I promise. Don’t overthink it, okay?” Steve said before turning back to his searching through the cabinets, like psychoanalyzing Bucky was just a fun pastime for him. 

Bucky unwrapped his arms and swallowed. He was okay. Nothing bad had happened. In fact, Steve had even complimented him!

Steve whistled after he opened a cabinet to the right of the chrome sink. “Pepper put you up good, huh? This is a nice-ass coffee maker.” Steve pointed to the Nespresso in the cabinet and Bucky felt heat rise to the back of his neck at the fact that Steve knew that it was Pepper who could afford all this and not Bucky.

“Do you have one?” Bucky asked to make conversation, his fingers playing with the fraying edge of his T-shirt. He really needed to stop by Target.

“Nah,” Steve replied as he reached up to check the cabinets above the sink. “I used to. I’m full cold brew now, though.”

Bucky giggled a little through his nose, managing to calm himself down a little bit. Of course Steve was a coffee snob -- he could afford to be, after all.

“I’ve always been just a regular iced coffee kinda guy,” Bucky said, before realizing that he might have given himself away as the coffee-spilling maniac of the previous week.

Thankfully, Steve didn’t seem to remember, throwing open a cabinet instead of responding and smiling broadly. “Found ‘em!”

Steve grabbed two glasses by the narrow stem and placed them on the counter with a light clink. He grabbed the bottle and twisted out the cork and filled them.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I just grabbed merlot. I hope that’s okay.”

“I, um, don’t really know.”

Bucky’s unsure smile must have spoken for the fact that his lack of taste in wine was due to being broke instead of him just preferring other kinds of alcohol, because Steve smiled good-naturedly. “Don’t worry about the price of the wine.” Steve must have been a fucking mind reader. “You’re providing the entertainment. It was the least I could do.”

Steve’s mention of entertainment sparked Bucky’s memory, despite the rest of his brain being caught up in anxiety, and Bucky thanked the gods that he had an excuse to go into the other room and get the films set up so he could avoid making more eye contact with Steve and breathe for a minute.

Unfortunately, it only took a few seconds to set up; all Bucky had to do was click a few buttons and load the disc in for it to be completely ready.

Steve came into the living room, carrying the two plates laden with chicken parmesan and garlic bread and pasta and placed them down on the teak coffee table. He went back to the kitchen and came back with the wine glasses, his sock-covered feet padding softly on the hardwood as walked over and flopped down on the incredibly soft couch.

“Okay. Should be all ready,” Bucky said, standing up from how he was leaned over the 4K Blu-ray player (seriously, Pepper was the nicest).

Bucky wanted to sit down next to Steve and dig into the delicious-smelling food and watch the WWI movies so he didn’t have to comprehend that Steve Rogers was next to him, but he had to feed Eustace first. Eustace always ate his dinner when Bucky did, partly so Bucky didn’t forget to feed him, and partly so Bucky didn’t feel lonely when he ate.

“Be right back,” Bucky said, going into the kitchen to grab the jumbo-sized cat food. He was greeted by the soft jingle of Eustace’s collar as he ran into the kitchen and a delighted shriek from the living room.

“You have a cat?!” 

Bucky couldn’t help but smile as Steve sprinted into the kitchen after Eustace and sat down on the tile floor next to the disgruntled looking cat who was perched over his food bowl.

Bucky poured out Eustace’s dinner and watched as Steve pet Eustace, his huge hands being incredibly soft and gentle.

“He likes when you rub his ears,” Bucky told Steve, who was wearing a face-splitting grin, as Bucky put the food back in the cabinet.

Within seconds, Eustace was purring delightedly, and Bucky knew that Steve had found Eustace’s ears.

“Ready?” Bucky asked, wanting to start the films so that he could throw himself into them instead of focusing on Steve, but unable to ignore the way his heart was beating a little faster as Steve gazed adoringly at Eustace.

“Yeah. Yeah, one sec,” Steve said, sliding back from Eustace and standing up.

“His name’s Eustace,” Bucky told Steve as he walked back into the living room.

“And he’s a good boy!” Steve said, giggling happily.

“Big cat guy?” Bucky asked as he sat on the couch and picked up his plate, twirling some pasta onto his fork.

“Big pet guy in general. My schedule moves me around too much for me to be able to have a pet, so I make sure to get in some pet time when I can.”

Steve was adorable. Bucky laughed lightly at him and hit play on the fancy silver remote.

“Okay, so you see how they’re cheering?” Bucky asked, refocusing on the film as a reel from the August Days began to play. “This was a rally from right about when Germany joined the war -- people wanted to get involved.”

Steve’s smile from petting Eustace faded into a mask of concentration as he nodded, the mask only occasionally interrupted when he leaned down to take a bite.

“Okay,” Steve said after about ten minutes of quiet concentration on the film. “I still don’t get it. How were they excited to go to war? Like, didn’t they realize they’d die?”

Bucky glanced over at Steve, whose eyes were still locked on the screen. “Not quite. Death tolls were quite low in war until World War I. Before this, wars were fought with muskets and honor.”

Steve snorted at Bucky’s joke and took a sip of wine, his tongue flicking out over his lips to catch an extra drip, making Bucky blush like an idiot with how sexy that simple action could be.

“But even beyond dying, war seems to suck. I mean, there’s no privacy, unless you’re, like, shitting,” Steve said plaintively.

“Not even then,” Bucky said. “Watch this.”

Bucky put his empty plate down on the coffee table and got up to switch the DVDs, flicking through a few until he found the right one.

“Okay,” Bucky said as the film started. “Wait . . . Okay, here.”

The film showed the soldiers sitting on a raised log, shitting in a trench behind them.

“Jesus! Ew!” Steve said, shifting so his legs were tucked up under him.

“I know,” Bucky replied. He was feeling so much more comfortable now that he was in his element.

“What’d they do if they needed to jerk off? Blue balls is a real issue.”

Bucky blushed. Steve Rogers was talking about jerking off in front of him; it was kind of overwhelming.

“Man, I don’t fucking know,” Bucky giggled, finishing his glass.

“I thought you were supposed to be an expert,” Steve teased, his hand reaching out like he wanted to touch Bucky playfully before retracting it.

“I am,” Bucky insisted, probably too loudly. “It’s just not talked about. You can’t exactly go to the library and request ‘The Masturbatory Habits of World War I Soldiers.’”

Steve laughed at how ridiculous that was and turned his attention back to the screen.

It kept going like that, Steve asking a question and Bucky explaining before it devolved into just teasing the other, Bucky not missing the way Steve kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye whenever they weren’t talking. Bucky’s cheeks heated up each time he caught Steve looking, but he managed to stay mostly composed.

When the last DVD finished, Bucky stood and carried the abandoned plates into the kitchen, placing them into the sink. Steve followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky cleaned up.

“Thanks so much for having me, Bucky. I learned a hell of a lot,” Steve said.

“No problem,” Bucky replied, because it wasn’t.

“I really appreciate it, though,” Steve said. Bucky didn’t respond, so he continued. “I’m gonna head home. Thanks again,” Steve said, walking toward the door.

Bucky turned off the sink and stepped over to the door so he could say goodbye. 

“Bye, Bucky,” Steve said, sliding on his shoes. “You’re the best.”

“Seriously, Steve, it was no prob-” His words were swallowed by Steve enveloping him in a quick, friendly hug.

Holy shit. Steve was hugging him. He smelled so good that it was unfair, like soap and pine and just a little bit of the food from earlier.

“Bye,” Steve said, pulling back and walking out the door and shutting it behind him like it was nothing. Like Bucky hadn’t definitely felt something akin to an erection against his hip when Steve had hugged him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't get back from vacation for another few weeks, so I'm really sorry if update speed is still messed up! It'll be back to normal soon.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, so sorry about the wait! However, I'm back from vacation, so updates should be more regular again. Enjoy!

“Thanks,” Bucky said to the check-out lady, throwing the carton of cat litter into his waiting cart.

It was Bucky’s first day off since arriving in LA, and he’d been on an intense errand spree, hitting up a coffee shop, a Nespresso store to get the weird pod-type things so he could make the fancy coffee that Steve liked (not like that’d had any bearing on Bucky’s decision to get the pods, though), the library so he could get a card since his one from home obviously didn’t work in LA, a Bed, Bath, and Beyond because he’d run out of his favorite strawberry-scented shampoo, a different coffee shop to grab lunch, and now the pet store to stock up on some litter for Eustace.

He’d even taken the time to wake up early and figure out the bus schedule so that wouldn’t have to bother Quill on one of the only days a week that Quill didn’t have to drag Bucky to and from set. Besides, Bucky was a New Yorker -- he had such a good sense of public transportation that he had never even sat in the driver’s seat of a car, let alone gotten his license because he’d never needed to. He could figure out the goddamn bus routes.

As Bucky pushed his cart toward the return, glancing up at the threatening clouds, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat accomplished; he’d moved to a random city on a whim and a job offer, but he’d been doing pretty okay. He’d even hung out with Steve Rogers, for chrissake!

Bucky pulled his bag out of the cart with his good arm, flexing his bad arm gently since it had been aching gently all day, and looked up at the sky again, more focused this time. It had been pretty nice and sunny when Bucky had chosen to take the bus, but now more than a few clouds were threatening. Bucky cursed himself for not checking the weather forecast before leaving that morning; he hated the rain, had hated it since he had gotten caught in a monsoon during his service and he’d smelled like shitty mildew and stagnant water for nearly two weeks until he could get back to base camp. Bucky didn’t even have an umbrella now.

Not that Bucky could really complain, at least in general -- this was the first time it’d even been overcast since moving. If he was home this time of year, it’d have rained at least daily, but in LA it’d been nothing less than sunny up to this point, so Bucky couldn’t get really complain. However, at least in New York he could duck under an awning or into a bodega if it started to rain. No such luck here.

Bucky sighed and began to walk the three blocks to the closest bus station, praying that he could beat the rain. Unfortunately, the rain didn’t really seem to hear Bucky’s pleas, and within two minutes, it was straight-up pouring. Like, skies-opened, Noah’s ark, biblical levels of pouring.

“Fuck,” Bucky mumbled, his hatred of the rain making all his previously minor discomforts get to him all at once; he was cradling way too many shopping bags to be comfortable, his glasses were getting too wet to be able to see out of, his shirt was sticking to his back with freezing rain, and his shoulder was throbbing.

Maybe he should call Quill. Bucky wanted to give the man a day off, but he and his recent purchases were getting soaked.

Bucky groaned, resigned to his fate of being a selfish asshole, and dragged his left hand through his hair before digging into his pocket to grab his phone and call Quill. As he tried to position his body to somehow shield his phone from the rain yet still be able to see the screen, he was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious honk from the nearby street.

Bucky rolled his eyes. No matter where you were, there was at least one person who couldn’t fucking drive and another who was fucking angry about it. Bucky turned his attention back to his now nearly-waterlogged phone, but, yet again, someone was honking for a stupidly long time, nearly five seconds.

Jesus fucking fuck. Could this asshole chill and let Bucky focus?! What was even happening? Unless someone was being very slowly and painfully rolled over by a flaming semi-truck, there was no reason to honk like that.

A third, even more prolonged honk broke Bucky’s already waning patience. Bucky looked up and glared at the source of the noise, a cherry red sports car parked in the empty turn lane a few feet away, it’s hazards on.

“What the fuck do you want, asshole?!” Bucky screamed at the car, despite knowing it was pointless. Bucky couldn’t really blame himself for yelling, though; he was already being poured on, his shoulder was hurting, he was probably gonna ruin his phone in this rain, and now he was gonna get a migraine because some piece of shit wanted to lay on their horn for absolutely no fucking reason.

The tinted window of the sports car rolled down and Bucky rolled his eyes once again. What kind of absolute dickwad was so conceited that they decided that they needed tinted windows? And why did he feel the need to pull over and honk at Bucky just to roll down the window? Bucky would put money on the fact that this dickwad was just doing it in order to catcall him. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Get in, idiot! You’re getting soaked!” a deep voice from inside the car yelled.

Bucky knew that voice, but he couldn’t quite place it. His eyes narrowed as he cautiously approached the car, hiking the shopping bags up a little bit on his wrist so that if he was mistaken and the voice didn’t belong to someone he knew, if it was just some douchey perv, he could sock them in the nose.

Bucky leaned down to look into the window, seeing the absolute opposite of someone he’d want to sock in the nose. Steve Rogers was stretched out in the driver’s seat, a stupidly tight gray henley hugging his sculpted torso, clutching a gigantic plastic cup filled with some kind of green smoothie in his hand, the other resting on the horn.

Bucky felt like someone had jumped up behind him and choked him. Bucky hadn’t seen Steve since Steve had come over to Bucky’s apartment and had hugged him goodbye. It shouldn’t have been weird to see him here, beyond the fact that it was unexpected; they were, ostensibly, friends, judging by that fact that they’d hung outside of work. Steve had even met Bucky’s cat! That was, at the very least, like, second base for Bucky.

Bucky had even managed to convince himself that Steve hadn’t been hard when they’d hugged, that it had been the way the seam of Steve’s pants had been aligned, so it shouldn’t have been weird, should have felt like Bucky was just seeing a friend unexpectedly.

Yet Bucky still felt, far beyond feeling the normal grossness that comes with being soaked in rainwater, all sweaty and awkward and nervous. It was honestly just weird and overwhelming for Bucky to see someone whom he may or may not have unintentionally gotten hard sitting in a douchey sports car drinking a smoothie with gorgeous, full lips, and inviting him in.

“Hey,” Steve said brightly.

Bucky blinked at him dumbly, confusion masking in features.

“Wanna get in so you can get out of the rain? You’re sopping,” Steve asked, leaning across the empty passenger seat to open the door.

Bucky didn’t really want to get in, if he was to be honest; he was neither emotionally nor physically prepared to hang out with Steve, since he lacked both the mental fortitude to have a conversation with someone so physically overwhelming as Steve, with Steve’s huge eyes and warm smile and calloused hands, and the physical fortitude to avoid getting hard when around, again, Steve’s huge eyes and warm smile and calloused hands.

He wouldn’t even be ready if he’d had weeks to prepare, though. The physical preparation, at least, could potentially be fixed in the future, if Bucky could ever find ten minutes to himself; he hadn’t had a spare moment to jerk off since moving, due to both pure exhaustion and his busy schedule. The lack of mental preparation, however, could probably never be remedied; Steve was just . . . a lot for Bucky to handle all at once.

However, Bucky’s desire to get the fuck out of the rain won out over his nerves, so he nodded and put his stupidly heavy shopping bags down on the floor of the passenger seat and clambered into the car, cursing himself for putting the bags down first because that now caused him to have to climb into the seat all weird.

“Seatbelt?” Steve asked once Bucky had gotten settled.

“You’re such a dad,” Bucky said without thinking, before biting his tongue. Steve was doing him a huge favor, saving him from a potential rain-induced panic attack (again, wouldn’t be the first time), and yet here he was, insulting Steve.

“You know,” Steve replied lightly, putting the car into gear, “most people say ‘hi’ when someone rescues them from the rain, instead of calling said rescuer old.”

Bucky cringed -- he hadn’t meant to be rude! “I never called you old, okay? And I’m really, really sorry for not saying ‘hi.’ I just didn’t even think of it. I fucking hate the rain. You’re my knight in shining armor, honestly,” Bucky rambled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He’d added that last part to be funny, but it sounded weirdly like he was brown nosing and being gross.

Steve didn’t seem to mind, though. “Yeah? You’re my damsel in distress?” he teased, merging onto the road and starting to drive west, acting like he knew exactly where he was going.

“I certainly have the hair for it,” Bucky responded under his breath.

Steve must have had superhuman hearing, because he let out a loud belly laugh. Bucky flushed and he stared down at the label of the kitty litter on the floor in front of him.

“So what were you doing walking in the rain, anyway?” Steve asked, his tone less light, instead sounding more like a concerned parent than anything else.

“I was running some errands,” Bucky said, shifting his gaze from the kitty litter to Steve’s hands on the steering wheel. Steve had a rainbow friendship bracelet tied into a sloppy bow on his right hand, and an Apple Watch on a chrome band on his left.

“Didn’t Pepper hire you a private car?” Concern and confusion laced Steve’s tone, and Bucky fidgeted with the hem of his T-shirt, a few droplets of water leaking out onto his fingers. He felt weird being the center of someone other than his mother’s concern, even more so now that someone of Steve’s level of fame and income was the one concerned.

“Yeah, she did. I wanted to give the driver the weekend off, though. I mean, I’ve navigated public transportation since first grade, so it was no big deal.” Bucky’s eyes wandered, almost of their own accord, over to Steve’s strong jaw, lined with light brown stubble. Steve’s eyes were focused on the road ahead, but he was smiling softly at what Bucky had said.

“It is a big deal if you’re gonna get hypothermia, Bucky.” Steve turned to look at Bucky, but Bucky quickly averted Steve’s eyes and focused instead out the window on the downpour.

“I’m not gonna get hypothermia,” Bucky mumbled half-heartedly, despite the fact that he really was freezing, and was shaking a little bit.

“Also, the business Pepper uses hires a weekend staff, so your regular driver gets a few days off, but that was really sweet of you,” Steve added.

Bucky felt like he’d just eaten a ghost pepper. His face flushed bright red, his mouth went horribly dry, and his eyes widened like they were gonna pop out of his head. Steve Rogers just called him sweet?! Bucky stared down at his lap mutely, trying to ignore the rolling nausea in the pit of his stomach.

“So, um, where are we going?” Bucky choked out, desperate to change the subject away from any “sweetness” he may or may not possess.

“I was gonna take you to my place. It’s way closer than yours, only a few minutes away,” Steve explained, guiding the car into the left lane.

“That doesn’t make sense. I’d be imposing,” Bucky said, grabbing the handle of the pet store bag like he was about to open the door and leave straight away, despite the fact that they were going at least forty-five miles per hour and Bucky would probably get run over if he tried to jump out.

“Now you sound like a dad,” Steve laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkling in such a way that made Bucky feel like his stomach was made of molten lava.

“Can you just drop me at the bus stop, please?” Bucky insisted.

Steve rolled his eyes like Bucky was an idiot, which, Bucky supposed, he was, considering the fact that they’d been in the car for at least five minutes and he’d only now asked where Steve was taking him, just to tell Steve to let him out at the bus stop. “Nope. You’re gonna get the flu if you don’t get into some dry clothes.”

Bucky snorted out loud, trying his best to ignore the fact that a snort was probably the least sexy sound to ever be a sound. Not that he was trying to be sexy around Steve or anything, but still. “Now you sound like a mom,” Bucky said quietly, trying to play along, but feeling too much like a burden to really lean into it.

Steve rolled his eyes again. “I’ll take that.”

Bucky snorted again at the mental image of Steve dressed in his mom’s striped apron, before focusing on the task on the hand. “Steve, please just drop me off. I’ll be fine. The rain is lightening up, anyway” Bucky claimed, ignoring the fact that a huge clap of thunder boomed right as he finished speaking.

Steve shook his head. “You could practically drown just walking down the sidewalk, Bucky. I can’t just drop you. If I take you to the bus stop, you won’t be home for at least an hour, and you’re already in soaked clothes. If I try to take you home with LA traffic, it’ll be even longer. I’m taking you to my place,” Steve said, like it was final.

Bucky took his glasses off and tried to clean the rain out of them, despite the fact that his shirt was just as wet as the glasses.

“Steve, really, you don’t have to-”

“Bucky, you’re shivering, for chrissake!” Steve interrupted. Bucky looked down. He was still shaking a little bit, but he’d assumed it was from nerves, not cold.

“No, I’m not,” Bucky said, despite the fact that, now that he was paying more attention to it, the shivering was getting progressively worse, traveling up his torso and making his bad arm reverberate with pain.

“And I thought I was stubborn,” Steve whispered under his breath.

“Steve, I swear, I’m fine. Scout’s honor,” Bucky pleaded. He really didn’t want to bother Steve more than he already had. Bucky could make do getting to a bus stop. He’d lasted two weeks all alone in monsoon season without a working left arm. He could last an hour or two in the rain in the middle of a city.

Steve just shook his head. “You’re an idiot. Here.” Steve leaned over the center console, never taking his eyes off the road, and jabbed a button.

“I hope that’s not an eject button,” Bucky deadpanned.

Steve shook his head. “It’s a seat warmer, asshole.”

Bucky leaned back in his seat, frustrated that Steve was insisting on making Bucky become a nuisance to him.

Just when he was gonna ask Steve to let him walk home again, the seat warmer started to work. Bucky couldn’t hold back his soft gasp when sweet heat began to work its way up his spine. Despite himself, he let out a soft sigh as he began to relax.

“Feels good, huh?” Steve asked, turning onto a narrow two lane road lined with palm trees.

Bucky nodded, choosing to ignore the potential suggestiveness of that comment.

The car came rolling to a stop, and Bucky looked around, confused -- they weren’t in front of a house, but instead a huge wrought-iron gate.

“Hey. Just coming back from the grocery store,” Steve said.

Bucky turned to look over at Steve. Steve was talking to a man in a security uniform standing in a small guardhouse.

Oh. Big oh. Steve lived in a gated community. Like, the rich people kind. Like, the kind Bucky would get arrested for so much as looking at.

Bucky felt nervous all over again. He was imposing on Steve’s Saturday, and he really needed to get out of this stupidly douchey car with the stupidly nice seat warmer and get himself home so he could brew himself a cup of tea and warm up.

He really was awfully cold, and the seat warmer was so nice, and before Bucky could protest once more, the gates had opened without a word from the security guard, and the car was moving. Steve drove down a curved street, lined with huge modern houses that looked like someone had taken huge slabs of glass and slate and had smushed them together until they somehow were all distinguishable but still resembled the monolith from 2001.

Bucky didn’t belong here. He belonged in his fourth floor walk up at home in New York.

“I’m imposing,” Bucky said for what felt like the millionth time, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. “I’ll just call an Uber or something.”

Steve shook his head, pulling into the attached garage of yet another indistinguishable monolithic structure and putting the car into park.

“You’re not and you won’t. C’mon, go inside. I’ll be there in a sec,” Steve said, turning the car off and unbuckling his seatbelt.

Bucky gave up on protesting and followed suit, climbing out of the car after grabbing his bags and admiring the neat rows of power tools that were hung up on the garage walls.

“I like to tinker,” Steve said by way of explanation. “Now go the hell inside. You’re gonna freeze.”

Bucky nodded, all his arguments used up, and walked toward the simple white door in the corner. He twisted it, and entered the dictionary entry for open floor plan.

There was a kitchen set off by a twenty-foot long granite counter, a sumptuous couch lined with soft-looking knit blankets, a huge bank of windows, and, to Bucky’s immensely pleasurable surprise, an honest-to-god pinball machine set up in the corner.

Bucky grinned as he kicked off his soaking tennis shoes; he fucking loved pinball. Maybe Steve would let him play as they waited for the storm to die down.

Bucky heard the door open behind him, and turned to see Steve entering from the garage door, toting several full reusable grocery bags and dumping them on the counter.

“Take off your socks, okay? They’re dripping on my rug.” Steve’s tone was light, obviously teasing, but Bucky felt like he’d just stabbed Steve’s grandmother or something.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” Bucky said hurriedly, a blush painting his cheeks for the umpteenth time and a lump forming in his throat as he hurriedly yanked his socks off and held them in a little wet ball in his left hand. He was a guest in Steve’s home, and he was already messing stuff up, barely thirty seconds after he’d walked in.

“I’m just joking, Bucky. You’re okay,” Steve said softly, glancing down at Bucky’s hand like he wanted to grab it, but refraining. They stood there for a second or two too long as Bucky’s urge to cry slowly dissipated.

“Okay,” Steve said, breaking the spell of silence the two were under and crossing over to Bucky to taking the shopping bags from him. Steve walked back over to the counter and dumped them on the counter next to his own bags. “I’m gonna grab you some clothes. Be right back.”

Steve lifted his hand before lowering it again, like he wanted to pat Bucky’s shoulder, but had thought better of it. Bucky looked down at his feet. He hadn’t meant to make Steve nervous to touch him. Bucky even kind of wanted Steve to, but Bucky just couldn’t think when Steve was touching him.

Bucky wished he could find the words to explain that, while he’d had a minor obsession with Steve for years, he just wanted to be a normal person and that Steve could be normal around him. He wanted to explain that Steve could touch him if Steve wanted, even though it made Bucky kind of nervous. Bucky was weird, but he wasn’t repulsed by Steve, not in the least.

“Here,” Steve said, suddenly back and dumping a pile of clothes in Bucky’s arms.

Bucky stared down at the black sweatpants and gray hoodie in his arms, trying to decipher where the hell he was supposed to change without exposing himself in this stupidly open floor plan.

His confusion must have shown because Steve pointed to a door in the corner by the kitchen that Bucky hadn’t noticed before.

“You can go change in there,” Steve said.

Bucky nodded dumbly and walked over to the door as quickly as possible so he could get out of his clothes, even though it was more of a waddle due to how soaked his pants were. That was certainly attractive, Bucky thought to himself spitefully.

Bucky opened the cream-colored door and locked it behind him -- despite any potential fantasies he may or may not have entertained in the past, he didn’t really want Steve walking in on him while he was naked. Bucky dumped the clothes on the glass counter by the sink and stripped out of his T-shirt, grimacing at how the wet fabric clung to him like a weird, alien membrane.

Bucky shivered yet again at the cool air meeting his damp skin, and Bucky wanted to scream at his body. He was just cold and kind of anxious! There was no reason for it to freak out and shiver like this!

But, admittedly, there was something disconcerting about the fact that he was shirtless in Steve Rogers’s house. How many people could say that they’ve been in Bucky’s position before?!

Pushing his fanboy moment aside, Bucky slid on the surprisingly well-sized hoodie, practically gasping at how soft the fleece lining was against his back, so warm and loose that everything from his shivering to his throbbing shoulder was feeling a little better.

That feeling was ruined as Bucky popped the button on his jeans and was faced with a conundrum; what in the fuck to do with his underwear. On one hand, it was incredibly gross to put on your new friend’s sweatpants commando without permission (if he did, he’d feel like Joey from that one scene in Friends, and who would want that?). On the other, his underwear, while not as soaked as the rest of his clothes, wasn’t exactly dry. Bucky didn’t really want his dick to mold or something.

It would be a weird violation to go commando, though. Plus, Steve might see Bucky’s underwear mixed in with Bucky’s clothes, and, while they were a pretty innocuous pair of black boxers, the mere thought of that made Bucky want to die.

He could deal with wet underwear. He’d dealt with it for two weeks while he was serving, he could deal with it for the few hours before he got home.

Bucky slid on the much too big sweatpants, knotting the drawstring tightly so they wouldn’t slip off his hips. Even so, they hung pretty low, low enough that there was a thin strip of pale skin in between the hoodie and the waist of the pants if he put his arms above his head. 

Bucky didn’t know if he liked that, given that he wasn’t exactly as buff as the Adonis in the next room, but figured there wasn’t much else he could do, so he just transferred his hand sanitizer and phone from his jeans pocket to the sweatpants, cleaned his glasses on the hoodie, and tugged out his half-bun. 

Bucky’s hair was soaked, and if it dried in the bun it would be tangled and absolute hell to brush out, so he removed the hair tie and gave his hair a quick shake with his hand. It looked decent, in a kind of schlubby way. 

Marginally satisfied with his appearance, Bucky gathered his wet clothes in his arms, placing his socks on top, and walked back into the main area of the house. Steve was puttering around the kitchen with his back to Bucky, and there were two steaming mugs on the counter.

Bucky padded up the counter and sat on one of the stools tucked under the countertop with his clothes on his lap, peering into the mugs. His glasses fogged up a little around the edges, but he could tell that the cups were filled with green tea.

“Hey,” Steve said without glancing behind himself, grabbing a bottle of honey and putting it on the counter next to Bucky.

“Hi,” Bucky replied softly, pouring the honey into his tea.

“Clothes fit okay?” Steve asked, blowing on his own cup.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, unwilling to betray Steve’s hospitality by complaining about the size of Steve’s pants. “Thanks so much.”

Bucky’s face was buried in his mug as he blew on his tea, and when he looked up again, Steve was so close to Bucky that Bucky could feel the heat radiating off of him.

“No prob. I’m gonna go throw your clothes in the dryer. Be right back, okay?” Steve said, leaning over and grabbing the wad of clothes from Bucky’s lap.

Bucky noticed how careful Steve was to never brush Bucky with his arms, only touching the wad of clothes instead. A little shiver that traversed Bucky’s spine upon feeling Steve so close to him, but Bucky elected to ignore it in favor of taking a small sip of the tea.

It was still a little too hot, but warming and good, and Bucky’s shivering began to subside.

Steve came back and slid onto the stool next to Bucky, grabbing his own mug and drinking it black.

Bucky knew he should probably make conversation, but he didn’t know where to start. Steve probably couldn’t care less about history or Star Wars or anything Bucky really liked, and Bucky, beyond what movies Steve’d been in, didn’t know much about anything Steve really liked.

Luckily, Steve slid in with conversation. “Um,” Steve started nervously, his hand wrapped around the back of his own neck. The tips of his ears were flushed red. It gave Bucky a weird, churning sensation in the pit of his stomach that he’d made Steve look all sheepish. “I wanted to apologize for, um, the other night.”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised in confusion. “What do you mean?” Bucky asked nervously. He’d liked that night, liked that he’d been able to relax and have a conversation and function vaguely like a person. If Steve didn’t like that night, then Bucky had been reading him all wrong.

“I know you, um, don’t like being touched,” Steve said, hesitating to say “touched” like it was a curse word and he was in front of his grandma. “And I hugged you without thinking, and I’m really sorry, ‘cause that probably made you feel really uncomfortable, and that wasn’t my intention. I actually had a really nice time, and I’m worried that I ruined it by hugging you.”

Bucky narrowly avoided spitting his mouthful of tea all over Steve in an awful reenactment of their first encounter. Bucky at least managed to swallow before he started giggling. He wasn’t really giggling at Steve’s ridiculous level of caring, more just because he’d been steeling himself for the worst, and this was just a sweet, innocent apology for something Bucky wasn’t even mad about.

Steve looked simultaneously concerned and relieved, and the mix of emotions on his face was enough to keep Bucky laughing at least thirty seconds longer than appropriate. “Sorry,” Bucky gasped. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise.”

Steve nodded, somewhat reassured.

Bucky took another sip of tea to settle himself, trying to figure out the best way to explain his weird aversion to Steve’s touch without giving away his attraction to Steve. “You’re totally fine,” Bucky began. “I get, um, anxious sometimes, and it freaks me out when certain people touch me when I’m feeling like that. I don’t mind you touching me now, not at all.”

The “not at all” might have been a bit too much, and Bucky internally cringed. But he relaxed when a wide smile settled over Steve’s face. “What do you mean by ‘certain people?’” Steve inquired, somehow managing to seem innocent despite the smirk curling his mouth.

Now it was Bucky’s turn to blush. Bucky took a deep breath. He was okay, he reminded himself. Nothing bad was happening. He didn’t have to tell Steve that Steve was stupidly hot (Steve probably already knew, since his thirst Twitter wasn’t exactly quiet), nor did Bucky have to tell Steve that Bucky was really, really attracted to him. Bucky had control of the situation.

“It depends,” Bucky said simply, pulling out his hand sanitizer and spreading some on his hands so he didn’t have to look up at Steve.

“On?” Steve pressed.

Bucky just kept rubbing his hands together, despite the fact that the sanitizer was all rubbed in. “A lot of things. How well I know someone, how well they know me, if they’ve touched me before, the context of the touching, where they’re touching me, how intimidating they are to me. Stuff like that,” Bucky explained, never once looking up from his lap. “For example, if my little sister hugged me, I wouldn’t care, but if the President gave me a hug I’d probably pass out.”

He’d explained this a few times before to a therapist, a few exes, a colleague or two. It was harder explaining it to Steve because, for some inexplicable reason, Bucky wanted Steve to feel happy and satisfied with Bucky’s answer. When he’d explained himself previously, it had always been with the attitude of “this I who I am, take it or leave it,” but with Steve it felt more like “this is who I am, please, please, please take it.”

Steve nodded, smirk thankfully vanished, and took a drink of his own tea.

“How bad was it? When I touched you?” Steve asked after a pregnant pause.

Bucky looked up in surprise. People normally just said “sorry” without meaning it and moved on. They never really wanted to reflect on it like Steve appeared to want to.

“Honestly?” Bucky asked, his nerves falling to the wayside in favor of getting to finally answer a question outside of the norm about his anxiety. “So bad, at first. When you touched my shoulder when I first got here, I felt like I was gonna combust. The hug, though, the other night, that was absolutely fine.” Better than fine. Nice, good, practically euphoric.

Steve nodded, now the one avoiding eye contact.

“I’m really sorry about making you feel like you were gonna combust,” Steve said quietly. “I really didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Bucky said, too quickly. “It’s all okay. You’re okay. It, um, means a lot that you apologized in the first place, actually.”

Steve looked up in confusion, and Bucky felt obligated to explain. “Most people don’t even realize, and they certainly don’t mean it when they apologize. It usually turns into me having to ask them to stop, and then them getting kinda pissed,” Bucky admitted, draining the last of his tea.

Steve’s eyes grew stormy and he glared at a spot over Bucky’s shoulder. “That’s awful,” Steve said, finishing his own mug.

Bucky nodded mutely. Talking that much about his anxiety was exhausting for him, and he was too tired to talk much more.

Steve stood up and took the mugs to the sink, rinsing them and placing them in the chrome dishwasher.

“So,” Steve said, leaning against the counter across from Bucky. “On a happier note, the Fourth of July is next week. Got any plans?”

That was, again, kind of a loaded question for Bucky; on one hand, he was a vet, so this should have been, barring Veteran’s Day, his kinda holiday. On the other hand, fireworks had freaked him the fuck out since the incident where his shoulder had gotten all fucked.

Since being discharged, his Fourths have consisted of going to a friend’s barbeque during the day, then hiding in his bedroom completely alone at night, blaring Van Halen to drown out the thunderous boom of fireworks. His “plans” for this Fourth were to do the exact same, subbing drive-thru for the barbeque.

Bucky tried to find the words to eloquently explain his plans without sounding sad, but he couldn’t find them.

“Not really. You?” Bucky finally said, trying to avoid having to be more specific.

“I’m having a party down at the beach, actually,” Steve replied amiably.

“Sounds fun,” Bucky said, just so there wouldn’t be awkward silence.

“Do you wanna go?” Steve said slowly, like Bucky was stupid, which, Bucky supposed, he was, since he didn’t pick up on Steve’s apparent cues that he was inviting Bucky somewhere.

Bucky blinked, simultaneously concerned and confused. Steve Rogers wanted Bucky to come to Steve’s Fourth of July party? What kind of world was Bucky living in?!

“Yes,” Bucky said without thinking.

Steve grinned and stood up. “Awesome! I think you’ll have a ton of fun, especially ‘cause it’s at the beach, and you need to go at least a few times while you’re here, and-”

“Wait,” Bucky spluttered, his mind finally catching up with his mouth. “Are there gonna be fireworks?” Not the most eloquent way to ask, but it still worked.

Steve looked caught off-guard. “Um, no. You can see them from a distance, but normally we just do sparklers. We can, though-”

“No!” Bucky practically shouted.

Steve looked surprised again at Bucky’s outburst.

“S-sorry. I’m not really a fireworks person. Sorry,” Bucky said, staring down at his lap.

“That’s fine,” Steve said, in a calm voice like he was talking to a feral animal.

Bucky blushed bright pink, and prayed that his still-damp hair was hanging in front of his face to hide it. Apparently not, because Steve apparently felt urged to comfort Bucky by saying, “The beach we use is kinda hard to find if you don’t know what you’re looking for. Would it make it easier if I drove you?”

Bucky, somehow, flushed even deeper. He really didn’t wanna bother Quill or Quill’s apparent weekend substitutes just for a party, especially when it was a national holiday, and he did like those seat warmers an awful lot. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good,” Bucky said, looking up at Steve, just a little shyly.

But Steve was smiling again, and it was okay. Bucky was okay.

“Can I see your phone?” Steve asked. “I wanna give you my number so we can, um, coordinate and stuff.”

Bucky nodded mutely, and grabbed his phone, hastily unlocking it and passing it to Steve.

Steve typed a few things in before passing the phone back. Bucky felt like he was simultaneously melting, soaring, and vomiting when he realized that Steve had put a pink heart emoji next to his name.

Bucky shot him a quick text reading “Hey, this is Bucky” so that Steve could have his number, too, and glanced up.

Steve was staring out the window, craning his neck to look up through the palm trees that lined his house. “Rain’s stopped. I’ll drive you back, okay?” Steve said, walking over to the door by the garage and grabbing the keys from a little pewter bowl near the door.

Bucky wanted to protest, wanted to tell Steve he could get home on his own, but he knew that it was fruitless at this point.

“Wait, what about my clothes?” Bucky stuttered as he followed Steve to the door.

Steve shrugged. “I’ll bring ‘em to you when I pick you up for the Fourth, okay?”

They weren’t Bucky’s favorite clothes, and he desperately wanted to get out of his wet underwear, so Bucky shrugged in affirmation.

“Hold up. Your shoes are sopping too,” Steve said, running down a hall by the living room and coming back with a pair of black slides. “These should fit you okay.”

Bucky slipped them on. They were a little big, but not ridiculously so, so Bucky accepted them and walked into the garage.

As they got in the car and Steve started driving him home, Bucky’s head felt like it was spinning, just a bit. He was hanging out with a celebrity! And not just any celebrity, Bucky reminded himself. The celebrity who’d rescued him from the rain, who’d gone out of his way to make Bucky comfortable, and whose clothes Bucky was comfortably draped in. The celebrity who invited Bucky to his party.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna make this two chapters, but I couldn't find a good place to split it, so have this monster of a chapter.

Bucky shifted nervously on the couch, trying to ignore the slightly grimy feel of being covered in sunscreen. He was all ready for Steve to pick him up for Steve’s Fourth of July party in a few minutes, but he couldn’t help feeling like he’d forgotten something.

Bucky ran his hands over his green swim trunks in a failed attempt to wipe the sunscreen grease off of them, going over his mental checklist for the millionth time to try and assuage his forgetting feeling. He had a hat, extra hair ties, a towel, sunscreen, his phone in a little Ziploc baggie to keep it safe from the sand, a picnic blanket, prescription sunglasses, and a hoodie in case he got cold placed in a Star Wars tote bag near the front door. He was wearing a dark blue swim shirt and brown flip-flops, all of which seemed apt for a beach day. He’d even thought to run to a bakery and grab red, white, and blue cake pops so he wouldn’t be some weird, empty-handed guest. He should have been all ready, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d forgotten something.

He wasn’t forgetting a book, he knew that, since he had made a conscious decision to not bring one; not even Bucky was antisocial enough to read during a party.

Bucky drummed his fingers on his chin as he tried to remember, and was so deep in thought that he jumped when the doorbell rung promptly at two, making him almost fall off the couch.

Bucky ran his hands down his trunks one more time to try to smooth that one wonky pocket on his left hip, trying to psych himself up to be a normal person for the next few hours, and opened the door.

Bucky felt his knees turn to water as soon as he saw Steve leaning against the doorframe casually. Steve was wearing a white tank top with an American flag across it, showing off his insane biceps, a navy baseball hat, and red swim trunks that were just this side of too tight. Bucky looked down at his feet, trying to force himself to calm down and make eye contact with Steve without popping an embarrassing boner.

“Hey,” Steve said, smiling at Bucky like Steve didn’t understand how fucking hot he looked and how that was affecting Bucky.

Bucky tried to smile back, but had the sinking feeling that it was more of a grimace. “Um, hey,” Bucky mumbled.

“You ready to go?” Steve asked, standing up straighter and no longer leaning against the doorframe, exposing even more of his glorious biceps.

Bucky’s stomach flipped again. How the hell could Steve not realize how many muscles he had and how they were literally all just showing off for Bucky?!

“Yeah. Can you come in for a sec? I don’t want Eustace to run out,” Bucky said, consciously removing himself from the situation as he ran over to the kitchen and grabbed out the cake pops.

Bucky popped open the box to make sure that they were still in the neat rows they had been a few hours earlier, and sighed in relief when they were. He heard Steve cooing to Eustace in the other room and Bucky’s lips parted in a small smile.

He went back out to the foyer area and saw Steve leaning down and scritching Eustace under the chin the way Eustace liked. Bucky’s smile faded as he realized that he was getting hard; hot guys who loved cats really did it for him, okay?!

Bucky tried desperately to think of cold, cold water, and calmed himself down enough to speak after a few seconds.

“I’m, um, ready,” Bucky said, somehow feeling like he was intruding, even though Steve was his guest and Eustace was his cat and they were in his house.

But Steve managed to assuage that feeling by standing up and smiling brightly at Bucky in such a way that made Bucky felt like he was just a little too warm all over. “Awesome! What’s in the box?” Steve inquired, pointing at the white cardboard box that Bucky was clutching.

“Um, cake pops. I wanted to bring, um, something. ‘Cause you invited me, and all,” Bucky said, managing to maintain eye contact despite the heat he felt on his cheeks.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know. Your presence is gift enough,” Steve teased.

Bucky wrapped his arms around himself protectively, still holding the box in his right hand, and stared at a spot on the floor; even though Steve was only teasing, Bucky still felt overwhelmed by the simple compliment.

Steve rescued Bucky from going catatonic with nerves, though, by taking the box of cake pops from him and opening the door.

Bucky grabbed his tote bag, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something, and followed Steve out the door while taking deep breaths through his nose. Steve was his friend. Steve liked hanging out with him. That was okay. That was good, even. Because Bucky liked hanging out with Steve, too. And if Steve sometimes made Bucky feel faint because of how hot he was, that was just a little issue that wasn’t Steve’s fault which, therefore, shouldn’t detract from Bucky’s enjoyment of their friendship.

Bucky grinned internally at how sound his logic was. He was going to have a good time today, he promised himself.

“So, the drive is about an hour and a half or so, but I have an awesome playlist and we can play license plate bingo,” Steve said as Bucky locked the door and they waited for the elevator.

Bucky took another deep breath, reminding himself of his resolve to have fun. “That sounds great.” Bucky was being honest. Even if Steve made Bucky feel nervous sometimes, Bucky liked him and hanging out with him. Like-liked him too, if Bucky was being honest, but that was such a middle school term that Bucky wanted to hit himself with a spatula. His feelings, least of all the terminology he used to describe them, wasn’t what mattered right then, though, so Bucky elected to ignore them for the time being.

“So,” Bucky asked as the elevator chimed and they stepped in, trying to shift his thoughts away from self-reflection. “What’s the party usually like?” He was fiddling with the strap of his tote bag absently, but making eye contact. Bucky would mark it down as a win.

“Pretty chill,” Steve said, leaning against the wall of the elevator. “We swim, play Frisbee, stuff like that. My friend says he’s gonna surf this year, so that’ll probably be pretty funny, since he’s about as graceful as a beached whale.”

Steve snorted at his own joke, seeming so comfortable that Bucky started to relax, too.

The elevator dropped them in the parking garage, and they walked over to the increasingly familiar cherry red sports car.

Steve unlocked it, putting the box of cake pops in the trunk, and Bucky got in the passenger seat, putting his bag at his feet. Steve slid in next to him a few seconds later and was about to turn on the car but stopped to look at Bucky.

“You don’t need to keep your bag by your feet, you know. That can’t be comfortable,” Steve said, like it was obvious that Bucky was allowed to put his bag wherever Bucky pleased, despite this being Steve’s car, and, therefore, Steve’s space.

“It’s no big deal. I don’t wanna intrude and take up space-”

Steve interrupted Bucky with an eye roll, reaching over the center console and grabbing the tote bag and putting it in the back seat. Bucky blushed, both at the close contact and how Steve was so committed to making him comfortable, and stared down at his lap.

Steve started the car and plugged his phone into the aux cord. “Like a Prayer” by Madonna started blaring out of the speakers and Bucky couldn’t keep himself from laughing, nervousness temporarily forgotten in favor of mocking the song.

“This is your ‘awesome’ playlist?!” Bucky said, laughing as Steve shot out of the parking lot.

“Yeah,” Steve huffed, clearly trying to keep amusement out of his voice. “This song changes lives.”

Bucky shook his head, incredulous. “Because people throw out their radios after hearing it and then actually think once they’re forced to sit in silence?”

Steve gasped in mock horror. “How dare you?! This song’s an anthem!”

“For whom? Queer thirteen year olds in the eighties?” Bucky shot back. His skin felt like it was thrumming, just a little, but Bucky couldn’t place exactly why it was doing so.

“No,” Steve replied, his eyes narrowed. “Queer thirteen year olds in the nineties.” The last part was muttered almost like a secret.

Bucky raised his eyebrows.

Steve must have been able to read Bucky’s mind, because he didn’t glance over at Bucky once before saying, “I’m bi,” in such a quiet voice that Bucky wasn’t sure that Steve had said anything at all.

Bucky was legitimately so surprised that he was able to ignore how bad the song was. Steve Rogers had never played anything except straight in every role Bucky’d ever seen of his. This was a revelation! Not only because it validated Bucky’s strong belief that more celebrities were queer than they let on, but also because Steve himself was telling Bucky about his sexuality. That meant Steve felt comfortable with Bucky. That was a lot to handle, and Bucky felt his back grow a little sweaty despite the blasting air conditioning.

And, if a little, tiny, itty-bitty voice in the back of Bucky’s mind was screaming that this information meant that Bucky might actually be eligible to date Steve, well, that was unimportant.

Bucky looked over at Steve. Steve was clearly trying to keep a neutral expression, but his jaw was tight.

Steve was probably taking Bucky’s stunned silence for judgement, Bucky realized in horror.

Trying to avoid making Steve feel any worse than he probably already did, Bucky blurted out, “Cool! I’m, um, gay. We’re sympatico!”

Steve’s expression relaxed as he laughed at Bucky’s spastic exclamation. “That’s probably the funniest response I’ve ever gotten,” Steve said, giggling.

Bucky blushed, giggling a little, too, and looked down at his lap. “I don’t know where that came from,” Bucky said honestly.

“From surprise, probably,” Steve wagered, glancing at Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

“I try to, um, keep it quiet,” Steve said by way of explanation after a silence that stretched just a few seconds too long. “I’m not closeted or anything, but I just don’t think it’s anyone’s business, especially not the public.”

Bucky grabbed his hand sanitizer from the pocket of his trunks as he realized this was the first reference Steve had ever made to his job, to his fame. Steve probably knew he didn’t have to reference his job, knew that his reputation always preceded him. That must fucking suck, Bucky thought contemptuously. To never have a clean slate. Not that Bucky wasn’t a big part of the problem, though. Bucky himself had tried on more than one occasion to do some casual Internet stalking to figure out who Steve was dating.

That was such a problem, such an invasion of privacy, that it made Bucky’s stomach feel like it was weighted with a lead ball. But Bucky couldn’t show any signs of his discomfort, though; Steve couldn’t know that Bucky had online-stalked him, or else he’d toss Bucky out on the street right here and never speak to him again, and the mere idea of that made Bucky feel like the lead ball was growing big enough to squish his spine and collapse his lungs. 

So Bucky just nodded as nonchalantly as possible, and groaned as a Cyndi Lauper song started playing after “Like a Prayer” had ended. “Really?” Bucky groaned, trying to subtly change the subject.

Steve just rolled his eyes and started singing along loudly and off-key. Bucky laughed as the cacophony took over the car, happy that Steve seemed more relaxed now.

Bucky clapped his hands over his ears, half as a joke and half because he really would get a headache if he was subjected to this for any longer.

Steve flipped him off without looking over at him, but the grin splitting Steve’s face in half softened any potential blow that might have been dealt by the gesture, so Bucky continued mocking Steve without a second thought.

By the time Steve was pulling into a tiny parking lot by a tall wooden fence, Bucky had been subjected to the entire discography of half a dozen shitty eighties pop stars. Bucky opened his door and bolted into the sunshine.

“Thank god! Freedom!” Bucky yelled as he ran in a circle, hands up in the air like he was cheering at some asinine football game.

Steve climbed out after Bucky, blowing a raspberry at him and popping open the trunk and pulling out a small drawstring backpack and the box of cake pops. Bucky followed suit, walking back to the car and reaching through the passenger side door to grab his own bag.

Bucky, despite the distractions of Steve’s biceps and his shitty music, still couldn’t shake the idea that he was forgetting something, so he combed through the bag, trying desperately to remember what on Earth he might have forgotten. Everything seemed to be in its place, and the bag was stuffed, anyway, making it seem even less likely that Bucky had forgotten something. Bucky leaned back against the car and tapped his right index finger against his lower lip, trying to concentrate.

“Ready?” Steve asked. Bucky didn’t miss how Steve’s eyes were fixed on the finger on Bucky’s lip, and it made Bucky’s cheeks heat up as he lowered his hand hastily.

Bucky nodded, just a little peeved that he was struggling so much to remember whatever it was that he was forgetting. Steve started walking down a little wooden boardwalk, which was only a few feet wide, and Bucky followed since it was too narrow to walk next to Steve, his own gaze fixed on the way Steve’s round bottom was wrapped in his swim trunks.

Bucky shook his head so he could clear it of any impure thoughts, and when he looked up again, he realized with a horrible chill what he’d been forgetting.

Hung up on two metal poles that probably were supposed to hold a volleyball net, was a huge banner reading “Happy Birthday, Steve” in red, white, and blue block lettering. Bucky nearly tripped over his own feet and fell flat on his face.

It was Steve’s birthday. And Bucky, despite knowing Steve’s birthday better than he knew his own sister’s, had forgotten. Completely and utterly forgotten. Bucky hadn’t even wished Steve happy birthday, much less gotten him a gift or anything. He had even said that the cake pops, which Bucky could have potentially passed off as a gift, were just a thank-you for inviting him.

Forgetting someone’s birthday was a capital offense, not only in the realm of friendship, but even more so in the realm of maybe-hoping-to-be-more-than-friends-ship. 

Then again, it wasn’t like Steve had told him when his birthday was. But Steve also didn’t tell Bucky what he did for a living, and had acted like he just expected Bucky to know.

Bucky felt like he was a fish being reeled in by a fisherman, all dizzy and breathless, and he stared down at his flip-flops, too embarrassed at his forgetting to look up, even when he heard Steve’s belly laugh and heard him start talking to, presumably, the other people at the party, who all knew Steve well enough to know his birthday and even buy him a banner for it.

“You guys didn’t have to get a banner!” Steve yelled, laughing.

More voices were talking and laughing now, and they were coming closer. Bucky would look like even more of a tool if he didn’t look up and pretend to be normal right that instant, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

That is, until a gentle, warm hand tapped him on the shoulder.

Bucky looked up on instinct, making burning eye contact with Steve. He immediately wanted to avert his gaze again, but Steve’s eyes were locked on him. Steve was smiling. He was happy. He wanted Bucky here, even if Bucky was the worst friend on the planet. Bucky kept eye contact, even though it felt like he was dying the whole time he was doing so.

“I d-didn’t know it was your birthday,” Bucky stuttered out. “I’m sorry. I would’ve gotten you a gift.” Bucky’s voice was smaller than he would have liked, but at least it was steady.

“That’s okay. I forgot to even tell you it was happening. My bad, really,” Steve said, his voice easy and reassuring.

Bucky felt the exact opposite, like his knees were about to give out.

“Come meet my friends, yeah?” Steve said it like it was a question.

Bucky realized with a small shiver that it was, in fact, a question; Steve wanted to make sure that Bucky was okay, that Bucky wanted to meet his friends. God, what did Bucky do to deserve someone as perfect as Steve caring about him?

Bucky nodded once, and Steve smiled encouragingly, stepping back and letting Bucky walk with autonomy into a loose crowd of maybe fifteen or twenty people. Steve wasn’t pushing Bucky to meet everyone, Bucky realized with a start; Steve was inviting him to.

“Okay, this is Natasha, you met her already, this is Peggy, she’s the best actress I know, this is Sam, he also served so you guys should hang out . . .” Steve’s introductions all blurred together in a series of rainbow colored swimwear and small half-waves and handshakes.

Until Steve said, “Everyone, this is Bucky. He just moved here, and he’s pretty cool. He even brought cake pops. Play nice!”

Bucky blushed again, and wished that he could cut the capillaries out of his face so that he could just not blush, for once, but he couldn’t help himself. Steve thought that Bucky was pretty cool. That was fucking wild, and definitely worthy of a blush.

It wasn’t until Bucky was trailing after Steve toward a few Adirondack chairs to put down his tote bag that he realized that a huge grin was splitting his face in half.

Bucky plopped his bag down on the chair next to Steve, taking off his glasses and switching them for sunglasses. He carefully removed his phone and hand sanitizer and put those in the bag, too.

“Hey, guys, we’re gonna go swimming and toss a football around. Wanna come?” someone asked after a few seconds of Bucky trying to figure out how best to arrange his bag so nothing fell out nor got buried at the bottom.

Bucky looked up from his bag-organizing and saw Natasha standing with a neon yellow plastic football under her arm. What’s-his-face, um, Sam, and the makeup artist from the film, the one with the blond hair, Clint, were standing next to her, both looking calm and kind.

Bucky almost choked as he realized what was happening -- people, veritable strangers, wanted to hang out with him! Well, mainly Steve, probably, but they had invited Bucky too, which meant, at the very least, that they weren’t repulsed by him.

“Sure,” Steve said, taking off his baseball cap and running a hand through his hair until it looked so nicely disheveled that Bucky felt a line of sweat make its way down his spine.

“Bucky, wanna come?” Steve asked, turning to Bucky.

Bucky nodded because he really did like swimming, but as he kicked off his flip-flops, Steve reached his hands down and took off his tank top and Bucky almost fell back on his ass. Steve’s shoulders were overwhelmingly broad, and so, so well muscled. His pecs were the size of Bucky’s fucking head, and Bucky literally had to bite his lip to keep from making an embarrassing squeak after seeing them. Steve’s abs were a fucking washboard, and the lines leading into his swim trunks . . . 

Bucky wrung his hands together, deeply regretting having shoved his hand sanitizer into his bag earlier. Steve was . . . Well, he looked like the movie star he was: tan and muscular yet confident and relaxed. And Bucky, meanwhile, just looked like the professor he was: not exactly fat, but definitely not super skinny, not at all muscular, fish-belly pale, and nervous as all get out.

Before Bucky could reconsider his decision to go swimming, Steve was taking off down the beach without a second thought. Bucky wanted to stay and cower behind the Adirondack chair, but that wasn’t exactly an option because Steve would be nice and sit with him and then Bucky would be ruining Steve’s birthday, and Bucky wasn’t willing to do that.

So, partially in an attempt to keep himself from ruining Steve’s birthday, and partially to keep himself from staring at Steve’s well-muscled back and getting even harder than he was, Bucky chased after Steve toward the ocean.

As Bucky ran, he tried to focus on anything except Steve’s form a few yards away in favor of studying the beach around him. It was so different than the Jersey Shore back home; there were palm trees lining the back of the beach, small tide pools filled with little shellfish littered here and there, and the thing that was throwing Bucky off the most: the ocean was facing the wrong way. Like, Bucky knew in theory that the ocean here faced west, but it was disconcerting to look at it in practice.

As Bucky reached the area where the waves were crashing, he forced himself to look up so he wouldn’t slip or get hit by a wave or anything.

Steve and Natasha were already in the ocean, tossing the neon football back and forth. Steve’s muscles were flexing as he caught the ball and Bucky felt hopelessly overwhelmed.

Just as Bucky was considering his infinite inadequacies, a wave crashed and sent a gentle wave of spray over Bucky. Bucky jumped, crying out with the cold.

“The Pacific is closer than the Atlantic, huh?” Sam asked, next to Bucky.

Bucky jumped again. He’d been so distracted by Steve that he hadn’t even noticed the fact that Sam and Clint were standing right next to him. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said lamely.

“I don’t know how these fucking idiots just jump in. Me, I need to get used to it,” Clint said gruffly, running a hand through his hair.

“Me neither,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I’ll never understand them.”

“Yeah, but now I have FOMO,” Clint whined out of nowhere.

“You’re such a little shit, huh,” Sam teased.

Clint just flipped Sam off and dove into a wave before intercepting the football.

“He changed his mind quick, huh? Can’t let some makeup artist show me up, though,” Sam muttered to himself, before jumping in right after him.

Bucky wanted to laugh at how much Sam and Clint sounded like an old married couple, but stopped himself, feeling that it’d be too close to laughing at someone’s expense to do that. Bucky, after all, felt like he was missing out by waiting to get used to the temperature, too.

“Bucky?” Steve called after chucking the football. “You coming?”

Bucky’s head whipped up to see Steve looking at him and smiling earnestly.

Bucky bit the inside of his lip as he realized that Steve actually wanted to hang out with him, wasn’t just doing this to be polite. If he was just being polite, he’d have dumped Bucky as soon as he’d seen the birthday banner. But he’d introduced Bucky to everyone and was literally personally inviting him to go swim with him.

The water was still painfully cold, though. Nevertheless, Bucky jumped in, cried out at the icy temperature, and focused on having fun as he caught a lob to him from Sam.

What felt like twenty minutes later but was, judging by the angle of the sun, at least a few hours later, Bucky had met everyone at the party, made at least two good catches with the football, played volleyball using Steve’s birthday banner as a net, and buried Clint in sand up to Clint’s neck.

Bucky was actually living up to his mantra; he was having the time of his life. He liked Steve’s friends, liked hanging out with them. His shoulder, which normally hated the temperature extremes that came with going to a hot beach and jumping in the freezing ocean, was even playing nice, just a minimal ache, not throbbing or anything.

Bucky realized as he went to reapply sunscreen that he hadn’t even seen Steve since he’d taken a break from football since he’d been getting too cold.

But, as Bucky scanned the beach and found Steve hanging out with Sam and drinking a beer, Bucky realized that not seeing Steve had probably been a good thing for him. Steve looked even hotter than he had earlier, his hair windswept and a light tan settling over his bare shoulders. Bucky felt like a horny, closeted teenager who’d never found the courage to look at male underwear models, much less look at porn.

He’d seen Steve shirtless online, but that was months and years ago, and having Steve here, in the flesh, was doing something unearthly to Bucky’s insides.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed as he half-imagined half-dreamed what it would be like if he could touch Steve’s bare skin. How soft Steve’s skin would be, but how muscular underneath, where his sensitive spots might be. . . .

“Bucky?”

Bucky yelped and fell back on his ass in an unglorified heap in the sand, his heart racing. Steve himself was standing above Bucky, his hand clutching the back of his neck and showing off his triceps in a way that would make Bucky drool if he wasn’t careful.

“Woah,” Steve said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to startle you! You okay?”

Bucky was hot from the tips of his ears to his navel. Bucky nodded, scrambling up in exactly as undignified a fashion as he’d fallen over in. Bucky ducked his head and wrapped his arms tightly around his midsection.

“I’m about to go back in and swim again. You wanna come?” Steve asked in a voice so gentle that Bucky knew Steve was modulating his tone on purpose, trying to keep Bucky from flailing around any more than he already had.

Bucky made a choked sound, and then started clearing his throat to cover it. It clearly wasn’t working; Steve was just waiting patiently, his face a mask of polite amusement.

“Yeah,” Bucky finally managed, unwilling to make more eye contact with Steve.

“Awesome!” Steve turned and began jogging down to the water.

Bucky’s eyes fixed on Steve’s rippling muscles, before noticing that Steve’s light tan was fading to a soft strawberry color on his shoulders.

“Wait,” Bucky called before he could think about it.

Steve skidded to a stop and turned around, looking confusedly at Bucky. “Everything good?” Steve asked.

“Your, um, shoulders. They’re getting, uh, sunburnt,” Bucky stammered, his mouth somehow even drier than the first time he’d presented a paper back in grad school.

Steve started to walk back to Bucky, and Bucky worried his tongue between his teeth. What if Steve knew and didn’t care? Bucky was probably just bothering Steve, just being an inconvenience.

But then Steve was digging through his bag and shoving a bottle of organic sunscreen into Bucky’s hand, and Steve was just standing there, looking as calm and steady as ever.

“Can you do my back?” Steve asked, already turning around.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit sundae with shit cherries. Bucky was going to get to rub Steve’s back and shoulders for an extended period of time. Oh, jeez.

Bucky wanted to back out, tell Steve that he’d been kidding, but Bucky couldn’t in good conscious let Steve get sunburnt and, maybe, a melanoma just because he was nervous, so he steeled himself and asked Steve to lean down a little so Bucky could reach his shoulders.

Bucky’s hands were practically trembling as he squeezed out a glob of sunscreen, and started rubbing it into Steve’s back. It was exactly like Bucky predicted; smooth and soft, but Bucky could feel how hard-won and strong the muscles were under all that creamy, smooth skin. Steve let out a breathless little laugh when Bucky’s hands traversed his sides, and Bucky had to catch a little whine from keening out of his throat when Bucky heard Steve’s reaction to being tickled.

He was just rubbing sunscreen in, but the way Steve was bent over . . . It was doing things to Bucky.

As he drew his hands back, Bucky desperately thought of bugs, of his grandma, of cholera, of anything that could get him to calm down just a little bit, get the flush out of his cheeks and . . . other parts of him.

“You’re good,” Bucky said, his throat trembling just a little bit.

Steve straightened up from how he was bent over so Bucky could reach his shoulders and stretched. “Thanks,” Steve said brightly. “Swimming?”

Bucky nodded weakly and followed Steve down to the water, his knees just a little bit weak.

Bucky spent the whole time until sundown splashing in the waves with Steve and, eventually, the entire party, praising Jesus that the icy water was keeping him from getting hard, until Bucky was so exhausted that it hurt to walk up the beach toward a picnic table where a big birthday cake was sitting, iced in a blue almost as deep as Steve’s eyes.

Steve ended up standing right next to Bucky as everyone gathered to sing “Happy Birthday.” Steve’s heat, somehow prevailing despite how cold the ocean was, seeped through Bucky’s swim shirt and permeated down to Bucky’s bones, making him shiver just a little bit.

Steve broke Bucky’s reverie as he laughed while everyone sung “Happy Birthday” to him, and his breath tickled Bucky’s arm as he leaned forward to blow out the candles.

Bucky felt like he was hot all over, but simultaneously chilled with goosebumps.

Bucky stepped back after the cake was cut, trying to give himself a breather and sticking himself close by Sam’s side for the next hour or two just so he could breathe without feeling like he was shaking all over.

Later, when everyone was lighting sparklers and running around like little kids, despite Bucky’s best efforts to melt into the crowd and give himself a break, Steve found Bucky again.

Bucky was sitting at the picnic table, having already exhausted the three sparklers budgeted to him.

“Having fun?” Steve asked, holding his own unlit sparkler out in front of him and sitting down next to Bucky.

“So much,” Bucky said honestly.

“That’s good. I’m glad you could come.” Steve’s gaze kept wandering from Bucky’s eyes to his hands to his lips and back again.

Bucky licked his lips anxiously, drawing even more unnecessary attention to them.

Steve was sitting so close to Bucky that Bucky could feel the fabric of Steve’s tank top, on again now that Steve was done swimming, just barely brushing Bucky’s arm. Steve’s eyes stayed focused on Bucky’s lips, and he leaned forward just a bit.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. For the barest of seconds, it appeared that Steve was leaning in to kiss him. But Steve was just leaning forward to reach into his pocket and fish out a lighter, lighting his sparkler and smiling at it, his gaze no longer fixed on Bucky.

Bucky let out his breath, simultaneously relieved that Steve didn’t kiss him without a warning and just the slightest bit disappointed.

Bucky shouldn’t have felt disappointed; him and Steve were just friends. It was Bucky’s fault for reading too much into Steve’s actions and getting too excited when Steve had innocently leaned forward. 

Bucky just watched how Steve’s eyes were illuminated by the sparkler to avoid focusing too much on whether or not he should actually be disappointed.

It was just a lot all at once, Bucky decided. The fact that he felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest, squishing all the air and sanity out of him, was just a corollary to his kind-of-almost-crush on Steve, and was easily ignorable.

“Wanna head back? We’ve gotta work in the morning,” Steve said softly, breaking the tension that was riddling Bucky’s frame.

“If you want to. It’s your party,” Bucky responded, trying not to shift his arm in any way that would cause him to brush Steve, not wanting to ruin whatever precarious amount of control over his own feelings that Bucky had.

Steve nodded mutely and blew out his sparkler as the flame neared his fingertips.

“I’m gonna go say goodbye,” Steve said softly.

Steve stood up and walked into the main throng of people, hugging everyone he came into contact with before meeting Bucky back at the picnic table with his and Bucky’s bags and walking together to the car a few minutes later.

They drove back in relative silence, only interrupted by Bucky snorting whenever a new song came on Steve’s playlist.

They pulled into the parking garage of Bucky’s building, Steve turning off the car as soon as they were parked.

“I’ll walk you up,” Steve said, his voice a little husky.

“No, it’s okay,” Bucky said hurriedly. “It’s just a short elevator ride.”

Steve shook his head. “I want to,” Steve explained, like it was obvious, and got out of the car before Bucky had the chance to protest again.

Bucky rolled his eyes and hopped out after Steve, following him to the elevator.

“I’m so happy you came,” Steve said as the elevator chimed and they stepped in.

Bucky smiled shyly, his disappointment from earlier having dissipated slightly during the car ride. “Me, too. I had a great time.”

“That’s good,” Steve said, smiling back.

The elevator stopped and Bucky got off first this time, Steve following him. Bucky unlocked his front door, and turned to say goodbye to Steve, but before he could get a word in, Steve was swallowing him up in a bear hug, Steve’s arms wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders.

Bucky shifted his arms to squeeze around Steve’s waist, and pulled back.

Steve did too, but left his hands resting lightly on Bucky’s shoulders. Steve’s grip was keeping Bucky so close that Bucky couldn’t move his arms back without elbowing Steve, so he kept them knotted loosely around Steve’s hips.

Steve was only a few inches taller than Bucky, but when they were so close that Steve’s strong chest was brushing Bucky’s, Steve towered over him.

Bucky looked up at Steve mutely, not wanting to break the contact with any misplaced words.

Steve’s eyebrows were knitted like he was thinking deeply, but they relaxed into a soft smile as Bucky met Steve’s eyes in earnest.

“I messed up earlier,” Steve said softly.

Bucky was confused. He’d had a really good time, and he didn’t want Steve feeling like Steve’d done something bad, especially not on his birthday.

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Right before we left,” Steve said, as if that explained everything.

Bucky’s face must have remained confused, because Steve kept going without further prompting.

“I was gonna, I promise, but I thought you might not want to with all the people around, and then you looked like a kicked puppy, and I’m really sorry, I-”

“Steve,” Bucky said as firmly as he could while being this close to Steve. “What’s up?”

Steve sighed, seeming almost relieved, the worry in his face vanishing as quickly as it had come.

“I just really, really wanna kiss you, Bucky. Is that okay?” Steve whispered, like it was a secret, just for him and Bucky, which, Bucky supposed, it was at this point.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat in surprise and he nodded, too shocked to say anything else. Steve beamed before ducking down just a little to meet Bucky’s lips before Bucky could even blink.

Steve’s lips were so plush and soft that Bucky felt himself let out a little whimper as his eyes slipped closed. He relaxed against Steve’s gentle touch, Steve’s hands moving up from Bucky’s shoulders to cup Bucky’s cheeks, Steve’s lips parting, and gently placing his tongue at the seam of Bucky’s lips, asking permission, before delving deeper.

Bucky was forgetting to breathe, was feeling lightheaded and loopy as he tasted warmth and a little bit of the cake’s frosting from earlier on Steve’s tongue, which was licking inside Bucky’s mouth so lewdly yet so sweetly that it was completely oxymoronic.

Bucky didn’t want to leave Steve’s gentle grasp, definitely didn’t want to leave Steve’s soft lips. Bucky could stay like this forever and ever and then some, but he needed air, couldn’t make himself breathe through his nose like he was supposed to while Steve was this close to him, was doing this to him.

Bucky gently pulled back so he could breathe some and Steve followed, pulling back as well. Steve’s thumbs were still rubbing at Bucky’s cheekbones and Bucky’s arms were still around Steve’s waist, but their lips were no longer touching, and Bucky took in a grateful breath.

“Was that okay?” Steve asked breathlessly, his eyes searching Bucky’s with a sense of palpable desperation.

Bucky nodded so hard he was worried he’d accidentally headbutt Steve. “More than okay,” Bucky whispered.

A grin split Steve’s face as he gently extricated himself from Bucky’s arms. Bucky couldn’t stop himself from feeling disappointed that he no longer had Steve’s powerful chest against his own, but Bucky let him leave willingly.

“I should get home,” Steve said softly.

“W-wait,” Bucky said, his mind slowly clearing the fog that was kissing Steve. “We. . . we should talk about this.”

“I’ll call you when I get home, okay?” Steve’s voice was a whisper again, and Bucky had to blink overwhelmed tears out of his eyes, taken over by how intense the kiss was, how sweet Steve had been about asking for permission, how happy Steve had seemed when Bucky wanted to kiss him, too.

Steve must have mistook Bucky’s blinking for holding off real tears, though, and Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and squeezed. “I’m gonna call you in just half an hour, I promise.”

Bucky nodded dumbly, his head feeling like it was filled with soft, happy cotton.

Steve smiled one last time at Bucky before stepping into the still-open elevator.

Bucky stared out at the suddenly empty hallway before letting himself into his apartment and collapsing on the couch, his lips still tingling with the memory of Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! It means the world.


	7. Chapter Seven

Bucky exhaled slowly as he extricated himself from his swim shirt and trunks, grimacing as they stuck to him due to his nervous sweat. His hands were trembling sightly as he placed them in a graceless heap by the bathroom door.

Bucky was still feeling the weight of Steve’s lips on his own, and the anticipation of waiting the now twenty minutes until Steve called him was weighing on him, making the trembling worse than it would have been if it had just been from the twinge of pain resting in his shoulder.

He hadn’t noticed the pain until now, too distracted by the notion that he’d just kissed Steve Rogers. With tongue.

Bucky had decided to try and distract himself from the pain and nerves with a shower, but the hot spray was only making him feel more nervous and sticky as he stepped into it. For the barest of seconds, Bucky imagined how much better his shower would be if Steve was here, rubbing Bucky’s cheekbones like he’d been doing earlier, calming Bucky down.

Bucky flushed, only partly from embarrassment, and turned his attention to scrubbing the salt water out of his hair. Bucky couldn’t help but think about what would happen if Steve’s hands replaced his, if Steve was the one washing Bucky’s hair; Bucky’s arms would be free to wrap around Steve’s middle and rub his back and maybe wander just a little bit lower. . . .

Bucky shook his head, trying to think about literally anything else. It was one kiss. Albeit an earth-shatteringly good one, but still only a kiss. 

Bucky couldn’t let himself get too excited about it -- Steve was a legit celebrity; he’d probably kissed more people than Bucky had ever even spoken to in his whole life. The man had people throwing themselves at his feet every hour of every day. Bucky himself was a bona fide expert in thirsting after Steve Rogers.

It was Steve’s birthday, after all. He probably just wanted a little human contact before going back to his monolith of a house. Bucky would be more than happy to provide that for him as much as Steve wanted, if Steve asked. Bucky just wanted to Steve to be happy.

Of course, if Steve wanted anything to do anything further than kissing with Bucky solely for Steve’s own comfort, that was another story entirely, one Bucky wasn’t entirely comfortable thinking about, let alone talking to Steve about. But if Steve wanted more than kissing for other purposes, like a relationship, well, that could maybe be a conversation.

But Steve wouldn’t want a relationship, Bucky reminded himself bitterly. Steve wanted to keep his sexuality quiet, and dating Bucky would be the polar opposite of that. They just couldn’t have a future -- even Bucky wasn’t willing to be some sidepiece used only for sexual and emotional release.

But Bucky really did melt into that kiss, so maybe it was impossible to tell what he would be willing and unwilling to do for Steve.

That is, if Steve didn’t tell Bucky that the whole thing was a mistake the instant Bucky picked up the phone.

It ended up being the pain that brought Bucky back down from his nervous turmoil. Washing his bad shoulder always hurt because he had to clean the scar tissue more carefully than the rest of his skin to avoid infection or anything like that, which left him with a lot of hot and cold sensations over the sensitive skin from the hot water and the cold soap, as well as the muscle aches that came from angling the shoulder so Bucky could see it to make sure nothing was off.

Bucky must have been taking a longer time to wash it than usual in his distracted state because his shoulder was throbbing violently before Bucky was even conscious of it starting to shake at all.

He grimaced and grit his teeth and rubbed the bar of soap over the scars mechanically before running it over the water and relaxing as soon as the soap was washed away down the drain.

Even though he was feeling more stable because he was no longer buzzing from the kiss, he felt decidedly worse than he had when he’d stepped into the shower, both physically and mentally.

His shoulder was throbbing and he felt an icy coil of dread in his stomach as he waited doggedly for the other shoe to drop with the Steve situation.

Because that’s what it would be once Steve dropped the bomb that he didn’t want Bucky -- no longer a kiss, but a situation.

Bucky shut off the water, somehow both too exhausted to think and frustrated with himself for not paying more attention to his shoulder.

He grabbed a towel with his good arm and ran it over his hair before wrapping it around his waist, bracing for the weird sensation that wasn’t quite pain, but was quite akin to it, that came from the rapid temperature change from the steamy shower to the air-conditioned bathroom.

Bucky stepped out onto the plush bath mat, sighing against the cold. He should have probably brushed his hair, if for no other reason than to eat time before Steve called him, but Bucky’s shoulder was hurting too bad too even think about what might happen if he accidentally smacked it with the hairbrush.

So Bucky just ran his fingers through the biggest knots and went into his bedroom, which was even colder and more unwelcome than the bathroom.

He grabbed his softest pair of pajama pants, a too-big blue flannel pair with the Battlestar Galactica logo sewn on the hip, and slid them on with only his right hand. Bucky picked up a cotton T-shirt, but set it aside again; he didn’t want anything touching his shoulder right now, even if it was just soft cotton.

Bucky checked the time on his bedside clock; still five minutes until Steve was supposed to call. Bucky took the opportunity to go back to the bathroom and take a few painkillers, just enough to make him able to talk without gritting his teeth.

By the time Bucky went back to the bedroom, his phone, plugged in on his nightstand since it had been almost dead when he got home, was vibrating. If nothing else, Steve was punctual.

Bucky noticed his hands were shaking as he ran to pick it up before his voicemail did, and he silently thanked whatever god was watching over him that it was a phone call and Steve, therefore, didn’t have any chance of noticing Bucky’s shaking hands and scarred shoulder and judging him or pitying him or figuring out how much more into Steve Bucky was than he let on. Bucky wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“Hey,” Bucky said as casually as possible as he lifted his phone to his ear.

“Hey,” Steve said back, his normally calm voice tinged with something that Bucky couldn’t read.

Probably dread that he was going to have to break Bucky’s heart when he inevitably rejected him.

“You get home okay?” Bucky couldn’t help asking. He felt this weird, yanking feeling in the pit of his stomach, close to anxiety, but lower and quieter. Like anxiety’s mousy cousin.

“Yeah. Traffic wasn’t too bad, so that was nice,” Steve said, his voice still just a little off to Bucky’s ears.

Bucky picked up the edge of his comforter and pulled at the neat dark blue stitching, trying desperately not to think about what he’d want to do with Steve on this bed nor what was inevitably going to happen once one of them brought up the elephant in the room. Bucky just wanted to keep his mind blank, but that was proving impossible; his thoughts were moving faster than ever, swirling to everything from how he was going to deal with Steve’s rejection to what he’d do if Steve decided to have phone sex with him.

Bucky settled for shoving his face in his hand and squeezing his temples before sighing out softly.

“Okay,” Bucky breathed, treasuring these precious last moments where he could reasonably believe that Steve wanted him. “We need to talk about this.” Bucky avoided saying the word “kiss” out loud, like his memory would be tainted if he did.

“Did you like it?” Steve said, also avoiding the term “kiss” as his voice filled with that edge even more. Steve sounded determined, but, again, there was something Bucky couldn’t figure out about it.

Bucky was taken off-guard by the question. He’d thought it was obvious he’d liked it. “So much,” Bucky said, blushing furiously at the admission.

Bucky could practically see Steve’s smile as Steve sighed, “Good. So did I.”

Bucky finally placed that weird edge in Steve’s voice; nervousness. He’d never heard Steve sound like that before, and it made Bucky feel weird and squishy inside, like someone had taken a hot poker and had mushed it around his organs spastically.

“What else is there to talk about, then?” Steve asked, his voice calm now, and Bucky now imagined Steve smirking, not unkindly, but like he knew that he had Bucky in the palm of his hand.

“Well, um, a lot,” Bucky said, running his thumbnail over the comforter with a little more intensity. He didn’t want to seem overbearing, but he needed several things answered. “Like, what were your intentions when you, uh, kissed me?” Bucky cringed as he finally said it, but it didn’t feel weird the way he thought it might. Instead, it felt deliriously normal.

Steve laughed on the other end and Bucky felt cold run down his spine. He wanted to curl into a little ball of nervous embarrassment. “My intentions?” Steve said. “Like, do I wanna ‘go steady’ with you?” Steve’s voice was teasing, like he was poking fun at the very idea that he’d deign to date Bucky.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. This was the other shoe dropping, huh? It hurt, but not as bad as Bucky thought it might. He’d dealt with worse pains. “Yeah,” he finally said, his voice small and choked.

“Hey, Bucky, it’s okay,” Steve said immediately, warmth lacing his voice. “I wasn’t trying to be mean or make fun of you. I just thought it was a funny way of phrasing it, okay?”

Bucky nodded mutely, feeling suddenly like he could breathe again. He then realized Steve couldn’t see him, so there was just radio silence from his end. “Promise?” Bucky finally asked, admonishing himself silently for sounding like a five year old who wanted to get out of time-out.

Steve laughed again, but this time it made Bucky feel warm instead of icy. “Promise. And, to answer your previous question, my intention was to kiss you because you’re adorable and I wanted you to know that.”

Bucky did curl up into a ball this time, lifting his legs onto the bed and wrapping his arms tightly around them and pressing the phone to his cheek with his good shoulder. He was flushed all the way to his belly button. Steve had called him adorable. That was a lot to take in, somehow even more than the kiss.

Bucky took a deep breath. He had to focus. Steve hadn’t actually answered the question. “I mean, like, what do you want to happen now?”

“Now? I want to talk to you until we fall asleep and then text you as soon as I wake up.”

Bucky bit his knee to keep from squealing in glee and surprise that Steve wanted to talk to him so much. Bucky uncurled from his ball, though, reminding himself to be an adult, and rolled his shoulders back, feeling the painkillers start to work.

“No, like, do you want to, um, do anything else?” Bucky asked lamely, unable to come up with a way to ask the question without Steve being able to dodge it.

“Bucky,” Steve said, sighing but still sounding happy, “I would love to kiss you again. That good enough for you?”

Bucky clapped his hand over his mouth in surprise. This was like one of his fantasies come to life. Steve Rogers wanted to kiss him! Again!

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed. His shoulder was finally calming down a little, so he leaned back against the plush pillows of his bed and stretched out leisurely.

“Are you all good?” Steve asked, his voice so warm that it made Bucky feel like he was melting into his comforter.

Bucky shook his head, though. He needed to focus. “Not quite.” Bucky didn’t want to bother Steve, knew he was bothering Steve, but he needed these questions answered. “What about the film? I mean, is this ethical?”

Steve laughed on the other end. “People working on the same film date all the time, Bucky. Why do you think there’s such a thing as production babies?” Steve explained easily.

Bucky shifted to lie on his stomach, growing restless with how easy Steve was making this seem. “But is it ethical? What if something bad happens? What if I n-need to leave, and they have to replace me? Won’t that be expensive?”

“What if something good happens, though? What if you’re the best damn historical consultant they’ve ever had, and we get to date each other?”

Bucky fell silent; he had nothing to say to that. He shouldn’t have even asked in the first place. He really was just bothering Steve, but Steve was so nice and was humoring Bucky. He was probably just softening the blow before he told Bucky later, in person, that he didn’t want him, because Steve was a Good Guy, and Good Guys don’t break people’s hearts over the phone.

But Good Guys also wouldn’t bring up the hope of something good happening either; they would want to avoid causing heartache in any way possible.

“But what if something bad happens?” he asked again. His voice was plaintive, but he couldn’t change it; he felt plaintive.

His throat felt so tight as he waited through the second of silence on the other end, just waiting for Steve to sigh and agree and tell Bucky to forget their kiss ever happened.

“Then that’ll suck, huh?” Steve said, annoyingly rational in response to Bucky’s frayed nerves.

“But is it even allowed? Will Pepper be mad?” Bucky bit his lip, frustrated at himself for coming across like a little kid who’s nervous about being tattled on for sneaking an extra piece of candy or something.

“If she is, that’s one hell of a pot calling the kettle black situation.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well, first, hilarious pun with her last name being ‘Potts’ and all, and, second, she’s a senior associate for her boyfriend’s company. That’s more than dating among coworkers, Bucky, that’s downright nepotism. We’ll be fine.”

Bucky felt embarrassed on Pepper’s behalf, as well as his own. He hadn’t thought about it like that at all.

“Okay, what about boundaries? I know you wanna keep your sexuality quiet,” Bucky asked, satisfied with his job security for the moment, but still full of unanswered questions.

“We’ll figure it out,” Steve promised, sounding fully uneasy for the first time all night. It was different than the nervous he sounded earlier; it sounded uncomfortable this time.

“Well, like, can we kiss in public?” Bucky was worried he sounded too eager, but he’d really, really like to kiss Steve again, especially if every kiss was as good as the first one.

There was silence on the other end, and Bucky’s stomach clenched with the fear that his eagerness was putting Steve off. Steve seemed to read Bucky’s thoughts, saying, “I’m not ignoring you, I’m just thinking, okay?”

Bucky grabbed the hem of the comforter and started messing with it again, doing his best to be patient for Steve no matter how badly he wanted an answer.

“I don’t really wanna make specific rules regarding that, to be honest,” Steve finally said.

Bucky nodded, hoping he looked understanding, before realizing for the umpteenth time that Steve couldn’t see him. “That’s okay. I just, um . . .” Bucky trailed off, trying to find the words to explain why he needed specifics. Bucky didn’t understand why he felt so weird telling Steve what he wanted, and it frustrated him. “I just want to have some, like, parameters, or something. I don’t ever wanna do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

“I know you won’t.” Steve paused, sucking air through his teeth. “Okay. Maybe a few kisses, but not in front of, like, a horde of paparazzi.” It sounded like a question, but it was a guideline. An attempt at one, at least, vague as it may be.

“Okay, yeah-”

“At least not yet,” Steve added hurriedly.

Bucky smiled and flushed, burying his head in one of the nearby pillows. There was a ‘yet.’ That meant Steve saw a future with Bucky. That was a lot to handle.

“Okay, last question, I swear,” Bucky began, swallowing the little happy dance he wanted to break down into with the realization that Steve wanted a future with him.

“Shoot,” Steve said, his voice relaxed again, but just a little gravelly. Bucky glanced over at the clock and started at the fact that it was almost two in the morning. Steve must have been exhausted, and Bucky felt nervous all over again for making Steve stay up so late, especially when his last question wasn’t that important.

“When am I getting my clothes back?”

Steve laughed loudly. “Fuck, I completely forgot,” Steve said, light and mirthful.

Bucky giggled a little, too. “You’re okay,” Bucky said softly.

“Though, to be fair, we were at your apartment earlier, and you didn’t return my clothes,” Steve teased.

Bucky flushed again, since he’d forgotten about Steve’s clothes just as entirely as Steve had forgotten about his, but didn’t feel too awful about it since Steve had done the exact same thing. “Okay, my bad.”

“Are you at least getting any use out of them? I mean, I did loan you my softest sweatpants.”

Bucky laughed again, his gaze shooting to the end of his dresser where Steve’s pants and hoodie were neatly folded on top of each other, the slides on the floor below them.

“No,” Bucky admitted, still giggling a little. “I just washed ‘em and folded ‘em for you.”

“Well, I do love me some organized men.”

Bucky tried to ignore the flip his stomach did at Steve’s casual use of love, even though it had to be completely facetious; after all, they’d only kissed once, and, while that was more than enough for Bucky to be head over heels, it almost definitely wasn’t enough for anyone else, especially someone who had as much game as Steve.

“I don’t know, though,” Bucky said coyly. “I might wear the hoodie to bed tonight.”

He hadn’t been planning on it, but something sounded amazing about putting the soft hoodie over his tender shoulder and sleeping all wrapped up in something of Steve’s. It wouldn’t smell like Steve, since Bucky had washed it and all, but Bucky didn’t mind. It was more the idea of it then the scent that was appealing to him, anyway.

“Yeah?” Steve asked. Bucky could hear the smile in his voice, and it made Bucky feel all warm and gooey inside.

“Yeah,” Bucky confirmed breathlessly. “I’m gonna go put it on now.”

“Won’t you be hot? Sleeping in a T-shirt and a hoodie? Like, I know the AC is strong here, but it can’t be strong enough to make that comfortable in the middle of summer.”

Bucky blushed. He knew exactly what Steve was getting at; he was anxious, not stupid.

“I’m not wearing a shirt,” Bucky mumbled, playing into Steve’s hands.

Steve gasped in mock horror, and it made Bucky laugh. “You’re shirtless?! And talking to me on the phone?!”

Bucky snorted, willfully ignored his snort, and rolled his eyes. “Like you weren’t shirtless earlier today, too.”

Bucky liked talking on the phone, he thought to himself again. It was easier to banter when he didn’t have to worry about getting nervous staring into Steve’s immaculate features.

“Well, yeah, but that was the beach, though. But just lounging around, talking to a suitor while shirtless? That’s just lewd.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Suitor? What are you, eighty?”

“No, seventy-nine. How dare you?”

Bucky laughed and put the phone down for the barest of seconds to pull the hoodie over him. It really did feel warm and soft and nice, just like he’d thought it might.

When he put the phone to his ear again, Steve was rambling about how Bucky could give a ‘fella’ the wrong idea, and it made Bucky smile dumbly, overwhelmed by how sweet and funny Steve was.

“Okay, I’m no longer shirtless,” Bucky announced, cutting Steve off.

“It’s too late,” Steve said dramatically. “The damage has been done.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and snorted again. “I’m so sorry for damaging your precious psyche,” Bucky said, yawning as the hour and the exertion of the beach hit him all at once.

Steve must have heard the yawn, because he said, “I should let you go to bed.”

“No, it’s okay,” Bucky said, despite yawning again.

“Bucky? You need to sleep,” Steve said firmly.

Bucky liked talking to Steve, but he really was tired. “Okay, soon.”

“Good. I’ll let you go in a minute, but can I ask you a few questions first?” Steve’s voice sounded nervous again, and Bucky wondered if he felt that weird tugging in his stomach that wasn’t quite anxiety, too.

“Shoot,” Bucky said. His right handed lifted to mess with his drying hair; it was already tangled and would be a fucking mess in the morning. He really should have just brushed it, but he was finally comfortable, flopped on his back in his plush bed, and he was falling asleep already, way too tired to even think about brushing it.

“What were your ‘intentions’ when you kissed back?” Steve asked, clearly teasing, but his inflection ticked up at the end, showing that Steve was still just a tad nervous.

Bucky smiled to himself; Steve really cared if Bucky wanted to be kissed, even if he was simultaneously teasing him. “That I, um, like you a lot and I wanted to kiss you back so you knew that,” Bucky replied, praising himself for being able to answer despite his exhaustion, even if it wasn’t quite as smooth as Steve’s reply.

“Okay, I have one more question now, and then I’ll let you get some sleep,” Steve said, laughter lacing his tone.

“My ‘intentions’ weren’t a good enough grand finale for you?” Bucky smiled into the empty air, feeling triumphant that he was finally comfortable enough to tease Steve back comfortably.

“No,” Steve said shortly. “Are you doing anything after filming on Tuesday?”

Bucky probably should have checked his work calendar, but he would cancel any plans to hang out with Steve. “Nothing really. Why?” Bucky knew he was being coy, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt happy and warm inside.

“Nothing really, or nothing-nothing?” Steve pressed.

Bucky sighed as he realized he was about to out himself as the homebody he was. “Nothing-nothing.”

“Would you like to be doing something?”

Bucky blushed again. “Yeah, okay.”

“Great,” Steve said softly. “Tell your driver not to pick you up after work Tuesday, then. I’ll drive you home after our date.”

Bucky clapped his hand over his mouth and beamed into it at the word “date.”

“Sounds good.”

“Good night, Bucky.”

“Good night, Steve. Happy birthday.”

Bucky tapped the “End Call” button and put his phone on the nightstand before turning out the light and burying his still-beaming face into his pillows. He had a date with Steve Rogers. He had a date with Steve Rogers!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting and kudos-ing (I'm making that a word)!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

“Hey,” Steve said, doing a little half-wave that made Bucky smile.

Bucky was waiting by the entrance to the lot, had been since filming had wrapped for the day twenty minutes earlier. Steve had rushed off to change and wipe his makeup off, and was now wearing a white T-shirt that, for once, wasn’t too tight, and black skinny jeans that, inevitably, were.

Steve still hadn’t told Bucky where they were going on their date(!!!), so Bucky hadn’t known how to dress; he’d spent nearly an hour and a half last night trying on everything in his closet and browsing Amazon overnight shipping, completely lost on what to wear. He’d eventually settled on a nice T-shirt and, just to be a little cheeky, Steve’s hoodie, but Eustace had thrown up on the shirt he’d wanted to wear, so he’d taken that as a sign from the gods not to be cheeky, and threw that idea out the window.

Instead, Bucky had finally decided on what he was wearing now: a light blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms since it was mid-summer in Southern California and Bucky didn’t want to die of heatstroke, a pair of dark blue jeans that he hoped made his ass look nice, and a pair of gray Vans. He didn’t look dressed up, but he didn’t look like a schlub either, so Bucky figured it was good.

“Hi,” Bucky said back, suddenly all-too conscious of how much more casual Steve looked than him. “Is this okay? I didn’t know where we were going, so . . .”

Bucky trailed off, unsure of how to finish the phrase without begging for Steve’s approval outright.

But Steve smiled and nodded, before looking over Bucky in such a way that it simultaneously made Bucky shiver and get uncomfortably warm. “You look great.”

Bucky flushed and followed Steve out the door of the lot to his car.

“Y-you do too,” Bucky mumbled after too long a pause.

But Steve ignored the pause and took it in stride as he unlocked the car and opened Bucky’s door for him.

“You don’t have to do that,” Bucky mumbled. His voice was small and embarrassed, which pissed him off to no end. He felt like a damsel in distress, which he certainly wasn’t. He wasn’t in danger, and Steve wasn’t saving him from anything; he was a fucking vet, for chrissake, but Steve just opening his car door for him had Bucky practically trembling.

“I know I don’t have to. But I want to,” Steve said firmly.

Bucky smiled down at the ground, avoiding eye contact because of how warm and weird Steve’s comment made him feel, but hoping to play it off as just him sliding into the car. Steve shut the door, and walked around the back of the car and sat down, buckling up before grabbing his phone and plugging in the aux cord.

Whitney Houston started playing as Steve pulled out of his spot, and Bucky couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his throat. There was something objectively hilarious about someone who possessed muscles scary enough to appear like they could break someone’s neck without any real effort humming along to eighties’ diva pop.

“So, where are we going?” Bucky asked, pulling his knee up to his chest in an effort to not seem overeager even though he felt overeager. If it was up to Bucky, Steve would just pull into an alley and they’d make out until their lips were sore. But Bucky was nowhere near touch-starved enough to suggest such a thing. Steve had a plan, and Bucky wanted to be respectful and find out what it was.

But, as Steve pulled into the parking lot of a run down bar ten minutes later, Bucky regretted not suggesting the turn-into-an-alley-and-make-out idea. Maybe that was Steve’s plan after all, though; what else was there to do in the parking lot of a run down, greasy-looking bar with a flickering neon sign? Bucky was probably just horny, but in his defense, the neon mixed with the light from the setting sun was making Steve’s high cheekbones look pretty nice. . . .

Making out in a parking lot did not appear to be in the cards, though, since Steve turned off the engine, unbuckled, and stepped out. Bucky followed him hurriedly, partly because he didn’t want to seem like he expected Steve to open the door for him and partly because he really didn’t want to be alone in a skeevy parking lot.

The neighborhood around was even seedier than the bar, lined with broken streetlights and graffiti and a lot of really, really drunk or high people. Bucky wasn’t exactly a stranger to shitty neighborhoods, being broke while living in New York, but he usually knew he was safe once he got to a certain location, or had transportation arranged to get him out of the neighborhood at the very least.

But here, he didn’t know anything about how to get out, didn’t even know if Ubers came to this neighborhood. He really didn’t want to ruin Steve’s plans and make Steve drive him home, but Bucky had zero interest in watching a Californian sports team he didn’t care about while drinking beer and looking over his shoulder every thirty seconds to make sure no one was about to shank him or roofie him or something.

Bucky wanted to ask Steve to go home, he really did, but Steve had seemed so excited about the date. But his safety was important, too, he reminded himself. Bucky could ask, he reasoned, he just needed to make it clear that Steve was not the issue, it was just the creepy bar.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, swallowing down his impulse to avoid being a burden.

“Yeah?” Steve was locking the car and walking toward the bar, but stopped once he realized Bucky wasn’t following.

“I, uh, don’t really wanna get drunk at some random bar,” Bucky mumbled as he hoped he chose the right words, pulling out his hand sanitizer and rubbing a glob in since he was probably gonna get hepatitis just standing out there.

Steve turned to look at Bucky. “Bucky, just give it five minutes, please. If you don’t like it, I’ll drive you straight home and you can deejay for the whole drive, okay?” Bucky glanced up from his hands to see Steve practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, his mouth split with a shit-eating grin.

Bucky quirked up an eyebrow as he put his hand sanitizer away. Steve must have some ulterior motive, Bucky thought anxiously as he followed Steve into the bar.

When Steve opened the door for Bucky, he was hit with a wave of loud laughter and yelling, and the smell of old beer and weed and something that was probably piss, but Bucky consciously chose to not identify.

Bucky walked in, waiting in the little entrance area as Steve followed behind him and resting his hand on the small of Bucky’s back, like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a thousand times and it was second nature at this point.

Oh. Bucky didn’t mind Steve’s hand being there -- kind of liked it a lot, really. Steve’s hands were broad and strong and Bucky could feel how warm they were through the fabric of his shirt. Bucky glanced up at Steve, still apprehensive about how noisy and crowded and gross-smelling this bar was.

Steve was looking right back at Bucky and smiling at him encouragingly. “Just five minutes,” Steve said, leaning down to whisper into Bucky’s ear.

Steve was probably that close just because the bar was so crowded, or because Steve just wanted Bucky to know that Steve had his back, but there was something about Steve leaning close enough to kiss the shell of Bucky’s ear that had him blushing.

Steve’s hand on Bucky’s back pressed lightly but insistently and guided him toward a small table smack dab in the center of the bar. Steve sat down and Bucky took that as his cue to sit down across from Steve.

Bucky pressed his hands to the slightly sticky dark wood of the table to resist the idea to just up and walk out of the bar.

Steve’s arm leaned across the table and hovered over Bucky’s hand.

Bucky glanced up and saw that Steve was looking at him with one eyebrow raised. Bucky realized with a quiet thrill that Steve was silently asking if it was okay, if he could hold Bucky’s hand.

Bucky smiled down at Steve’s still-hovering hand and nodded. Steve really wanted him to be happy and comfortable, Bucky thought happily as Steve covered Bucky’s hand with his own and rubbed the back of it with his thumb.

The gestures of reassurance were completely at odds to the setting they were in; if Steve cared about Bucky being truly comfortable and safe, why bring him to some shady bar in some off-brand version of a red light district?

The answer came just a few seconds later when the blaring music shut off and the cacophony of people yelling and drinking lulled to a halt. Bucky looked up at Steve, confused. Steve was clearly trying to keep a poker face, but the edges of his lips were twitching up.

“Hey, guys!” someone shouted from the bar.

Bucky turned to look at them. It was some hipster-looking guy with wild salt and pepper hair wearing thick-framed glasses and a ripped green shirt that hung half off of him.

Bucky glanced at Steve again, an eyebrow quirked upward. “Who’s he?” Bucky asked, leaning forward.

“Bruce. He owns the place. Now shut up and listen,” Steve said, rubbing his thumb over Bucky’s hand just the slightest bit faster. 

“St-”

Bucky was cut off by Steve’s smile breaking out in earnest as he held a finger from the hand that wasn’t holding Bucky’s to his lips to make Bucky be quiet and listen.

“So, everyone knows tonight’s Tuesday!”

Bucky looked quizzically at Steve again. Steve just held the finger to his lips again and pointed back to the guy.

“And it’s now six in the evening. Which means, here at Hulkin’ Liquors, drumroll please, that it’s Trivia Night! So, please form teams and go sign up at the bar. Teams of two to six, please. As always, grab a buzzer and a team name placard when you sign up. We’ll start in a few! If you win, you get a free pitcher of beer.”

The guy stepped back behind the bar and began procuring little slips of paper for people to sign up with.

“You like it?” Steve asked excitedly. He was practically bouncing in his seat.

Bucky tried to hide a smile behind his free hand. Steve was so cute when he was proud of himself.

Bucky distracted himself from Steve’s appearance by nodding honestly in response to Steve’s question; he really did like trivia. During trivia night back home, an annual department fundraiser at Columbia, Bucky’s team had won four of the last five years.

“Yay! I’m gonna grab us drinks and sign up. Can you hold down the fort for me?” Steve was like a kid in a candy store, bouncing on the balls of his feet when Bucky nodded in affirmation and squeezing Bucky’s hand tightly before letting go and walking to the bar.

Bucky watched Steve’s back (and definitely not his ass) appreciatively as Steve wandered through the throng so he could sign them up. Steve really was something else; considerate and funny and gorgeous. Bucky felt the tips of his ears flush just a little upon realizing how lucky he was -- not everyone got to hold Steve Rogers’s hand and get taken to trivia nights with him.

Bucky realized with a chill that he wouldn’t know the first place to take Steve on a date since, presumably, their next one would be Bucky’s job to plan. Of course, that was probably presumptuous in and of itself to assume that there would be a second date. They were just hanging out, and they’d only kissed once, anyway. Though, if it were up to Bucky, he might rectify that stat tonight.

Bucky would love to wrap his arms around Steve’s neck and stand on tiptoe and just kiss him softly until neither of them could breathe. Or wind his hands around Steve’s hips and pull him in that way. Bucky was thinking of about half a dozen ways he wanted to kiss Steve when Steve suddenly announced his return by sliding down across from Bucky and grabbing his hand almost possessively before putting two beers down in between them.

Bucky reached over with his free arm and grabbed the beer closer to him, taking a small swig to hide his embarrassment at what he’d been thinking mere moments earlier.

Steve, on the other hand, looked content and excited to be at some random bar with Bucky, holding a beer in his right hand with a Sharpie clutched between his fingers. Bucky smiled shyly at Steve.

This was, despite his earlier misgivings, really nice. He was holding Steve’s hand, and they were about to crush trivia together, since trivia was Bucky’s bitch, and Steve could probably buzz in faster than any other human alive, if his hyperactivity was anything to go by.

“What do you want our team name to be?” Steve asked, breaking Bucky’s train of thought and smoothing a folded piece of yellow cardstock so it laid flat on the table. Steve was tapping the Sharpie against his lower lip, probably just thinking and not intending to be sexy, but something about it caused Bucky to be a hair away from grabbing Steve’s face and pressing his lips to Steve’s right now (after gaining Steve’s consent, of course).

It’d been literally over eighteen months since Bucky’d seen any action beyond his right hand, and he could feel his blue-balls desperately right now. But this was neither the time nor the place, so he just looked up at a random spot on the acoustic-tiled ceiling, pretending to think about a team name for trivia instead of anything that could get him to calm down a little bit.

“What about Super Smart and Sexy Sons-of-Bitches?” Steve asked, his face straight, but his eyes shining with laugher. “Ya know, for the alliteration?”

Bucky laughed and rolled his eyes at Steve’s hyperbole. “Cool Guys Who Know Stuff?” Bucky suggested, ignoring the fact that it was clearly terrible.

Steve sucked his teeth. “I mean, that sucks, so no,” Steve said utterly deadpan.

Bucky pressed his free hand to his chest in mock horror. “How dare you?! Like ‘Super Smart Sex Bitches’ was better? That sounds like a bad porno.”

“No, it was ‘Super Smart and Sexy Sons-of Bitches!’ Which is hilarious, unlike your bastardized porn parody of it.”

“Whatever, yours is shitty, too,” Bucky retorted, sticking his tongue out.

“Really? Come up with a better one!” Steve said, taking a swig of his beer.

As Bucky desperately tried to think of a better team name, he noticed that even though Steve and he were gesturing absurdly dramatically, neither of them had moved the hand that the other held, other than to rub the other’s knuckles every so often.

Bucky gave a small squeeze, and Steve squeezed back in kind, smiling at Bucky encouragingly.

Suddenly, a horribly great idea struck Bucky. “I’ve got it!” Bucky announced, too loud even for the crowded bar.

“Pray tell,” Steve asked, leaning in and resting his chin in his hand.

Bucky smiled devilishly. “Trivia Newton John.”

Steve shook his head vehemently as he giggled. “We can’t! I’ve worked with Olivia before! I’d never hear the end of it.”

“But it’s so funny!” 

“But it’s weird!”

Bucky pushed his glasses up and gave Steve huge puppy-dog eyes.

“God,” Steve said, holding up his free hand in mock defeat. “Fine.”

Bucky smiled triumphantly and took a swig of his beer as he watched Steve bend over the cardstock and scrawl out “Trivia Newton John” and adding a little cartoon-y figure of someone with Sandy’s hair from the end of Grease on the edge of the paper.

It was a pretty good drawing for thirty seconds with a Sharpie, and Bucky again felt stupidly lucky for getting to go on a date with Steve. Bucky squeezed Steve’s hand again and Steve squeezed back immediately, as if without thinking.

“Okay,” Steve said, leaning back and propping the cardstock up on the edge of their table so the bar guy, Bruce, could read their team name.

“How does the buzzer work?” Bucky asked, taking a drink to hide how much he was beaming at Steve’s adorable drawing.

“You just press it and it sends an alert to Bruce’s phone immediately. That way he knows who pressed it first. He designed the system itself.”

Bucky nodded, ignoring the fact that the spazzy-looking bar owner was apparently some sort of computer whiz. “What’s the best strategy for pressing it first?”

“I was gonna put it in the middle and hover our hands over it, so if one of us knows an answer we can just press down.”

“Sounds good.”

Sounded great, really. That meant that there would be even more chances for their hands to touch.

Bucky sounded like a middle school girl, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Steve’s hands had been on him all evening, and it was driving Bucky just a little bit crazy. He wasn’t even nervous anymore, just kind of giddy. He’d only had about a third of his beer, but he felt light and tipsy and comfortable.

“What’re you thinking about?” Steve asked, head resting on his free hand.

Bucky blushed again. “Nothing,” he stammered. He may not have been nervous, but that still didn’t mean that he needed Steve to know his every inner thought.

“Well, I’m thinking about what we should do after we crush this game of trivia. What do you want to do?”

Bucky squeezed his free hand into a tight fist before letting it go, trying to gather up the courage to tell Steve how much he wanted to kiss him again. “We could hang out at my place?” Bucky said it like a question. He was all hesitant and awkward and sweaty, but Steve just nodded kindly.

Steve nodded and hummed low in his throat before taking a pull of his beer. “Would I get to pet Eustace?”

Bucky giggled and glanced at where their hands were joined before looking back up at Steve. “Of course. And maybe we could, um, do other things, too.”

He’d said the last part way too quietly, but Steve was just smiling gently at him. “That sounds nice, Buck.”

If Bucky wasn’t red before, he certainly was now. No one had called him “Buck” since his sister when they were in elementary school. But this wasn’t the fraternal, friendly way that she’d said it. It was the way someone called their boyfriend “baby” or “honey” or “schnookums.” Steve had called him a pet name! Bucky would pay just for Steve to call him one all the time. He hoped Steve never called him schnookums, though; that sounded absolutely disgusting.

Bucky was desperately trying to brainstorm an appropriate pet name for Steve when his thoughts were interrupted by Bruce, back in front of the bar, now with a mic in hand.

“Okay! Any more latecomers?” he asked.

There were a few shakes of heads, but no one volunteered to play who didn’t already have a buzzer placed in front of them, so Bruce nodded and grabbed a thick wad of index cards from the bar behind him.

“Okay. So, if you know the answer, buzz in, if you don’t, accept your loss like a man. Again, winner gets a free pitcher of beer!”

Suddenly, Steve was leaning across the table and so close to Bucky that Bucky felt like he was buzzing. “Full disclosure, the beer you win tastes like piss, but the trivia itself is super fun.”

Bucky shrugged; he’d been in it for the glory, not the beer, anyway.

“Besides,” Steve said, still ducked in close, “even if the trivia was bad, the eye candy is amazing.”

Steve sat back down and honest-to-God winked at Bucky. Bucky felt like a literal fish out of water, gasping for air but failing and slowly choking to death. Steve Rogers had literally just said that he, Bucky, was hot. Well, not in so many words, but still. That was so bonkers that Bucky started pinching his forearm, willing himself to wake up from this incredibly realistic dream before he came in his boxers.

But wakefulness didn’t come, and before Bucky could comprehend the fact that this was real, that this was his actual life, Steve was slamming his hand down on the buzzer between them.

Bucky looked up, perplexed. He hadn’t even heard a question be asked, let alone what the question was.

“Okay, buzzer 12. It belongs to . . . Trivia Newton John?” the guy with the mike asked, looking around to see the name placard of the person to whom the buzzer belonged.

Steve raised his free hand, and Bucky would have been embarrassed by how zealous Steve was, but he was too busy wracking his brain for the answer to a question he hadn’t heard.

“Bucky? Which U.S. state is closest to the former Soviet Union?” Steve whispered hurriedly once Bruce was looking at their table.

Bucky’s tongue felt so thick and weird in his mouth that it took him a solid ten seconds before he was able to mumble out “Alaska.”

“Alaska!” Steve shouted triumphantly.

“Correct!” Bar guy yelled back.

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand excitedly. “You need to start listening if we’re gonna win, Bucky,” he chastised lightly as Bar Guy made note of their correct answer on a whiteboard behind him.

“Why’d you buzz in if you didn’t know the answer?” Bucky snapped back, a little annoyed but genuinely curious.

“I knew that you’d know it,” Steve replied smugly, shrugging.

Bucky suddenly felt himself closing up a little at that; Steve’s expectations of him felt so high, and he felt like he was going to let Steve down any minute now. He needed to take a break, maybe splash some water on his face and get rid of this pleasant buzz that was half from alcohol and half from the contact with Steve. Bucky needed to come back down to Earth.

But before he could gather himself enough to politely excuse himself, Bar Guy was jumping into the next question. “How many pints of blood are there in the human body?”

Bucky could be annoyed that in lieu of any sort of category system, the questions seemed to just be whatever Bruce thought was interesting, but instead Bucky just threw himself into slamming the buzzer. His hand just brushed the top of Steve’s, though, who’d gotten there first.

Bucky realized with a blush that he didn’t know the answer to this (he was a history buff, not a nursing student, after all), but had tried to slam the buzzer anyway.

“Trivia Newton John again! The rest of you need to get those trigger fingers warmed up a little, huh? So, what do you guys think?”

“Nine pints!” Steve shouted, standing up again.

Bucky looked up at him, both surprised and, weirdly, proud that Steve had known so quickly. “How’d you know that?” Bucky asked, squeezing Steve’s hand as if to congratulate him.

“I played a doctor for, like, three seasons of Grey’s Anatomy. You pick up a few things.” Steve didn’t sound at all like he expected Bucky to know that. He’d just stated it matter-of-factly, the same way a normal person would say that they went to the bakery to pick up some bagels. Maybe that’s why Bucky liked Steve so much; he was humble to a fault.

Bucky laughed and squeezed his hand again. How could he have forgotten? Steve had been playing this absolute womanizer, and it had made Bucky feel some type of way whenever there’d been a sex scene or anything. He’d watched Steve’s entire run on the show twice, and the sex scenes a few more times than that, more than he’d like to admit.

Of course, Steve could never ever ever know that, or else he’d be utterly disgusted by Bucky and Bucky would never get to squeeze Steve’s hand and watch Steve’s eyes crinkle when he laughed ever again. So Bucky took a big swig of beer to hide his blush and tried to pay attention to the game.

They missed the next two questions by way of buzzing in too late, and Bucky realized with a slow, sappy smile that whenever Steve was about to hit the buzzer, he squeezed Bucky’s hand, like a nervous tic. Steve was so adorable that when they did finally buzz in first, Bucky missed the question again.

“What was it?” he whispered to Steve when Steve looked at him expectantly.

Steve rolled his eyes. “What chemical has the symbol Hg on the periodic table?”

“Mercury,” Bucky said, loud enough for Bruce to hear it without standing up and being a show-off like Steve was.

“Correct again, Trivia Newton John! These guys are the ones to beat!”

Bucky smiled at that, and when he looked at Steve, Steve was smiling too, looking content and warm and happy with him. Bucky squeezed Steve’s hand again when he felt himself blushing at that look, and Steve just squeezed back, simple and easy.

Bucky shook his head to clear it of all the sappy feelings and tried to focus, but couldn’t. Steve had to remind him of the questions almost every single time they buzzed in now. He just felt so keyed up, so weird and floaty.

By the time they were loading back in the car, Bucky’s mouth still twisted from just how awful the one sip from the pitcher of beer they’d won had been, Bucky felt legitimately upset that he’d have to let go of Steve’s hand to get in the car.

He didn’t know why he liked it so much; their hands were sweaty where they were touching, and his fingers were aching just a little bit from having to spread so wide to lace with Steve’s. But, as Bucky sat down and buckled in and Steve walked around the car to sit across from him, Bucky couldn’t help but miss the contact.

As Steve pulled out of the lot and started toward the highway to Bucky’s apartment, Bucky realized that there was a blissful absence of eighties’ pop divas on the radio.

“Where’d the music go?” Bucky teased.

“Well, did you have fun?” Steve just pressed back.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. I thought that was obvious. But what does that have to do with music?”

Steve smiled, almost to himself. “I said if you didn’t have fun, you could deejay. However, you did have fun, so enjoy some Toni Basil.” Steve’s hand moved toward the stereo, but Bucky flicked it away quickly.

“Nope, I misspoke. I actually had the worst time ever and I hate trivia,” Bucky said hurriedly.

“Oh? Then I guess I should just drop you off at your apartment and not come in like I was planning.”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest playfully. “That’s how it’s gonna be? Either I have to endure Toni Basil or I won’t get a goodnight kiss?”

“Well, if I can come in, I was planning on a little more than just that,” Steve said, like it was easy and simple, which it decidedly wasn’t.

The smile dropped from Bucky’s face before Bucky was even conscious of it, his posture shifting from playful to protective. It’s not that Bucky didn’t want to do more than kiss; he did, more than he wanted the vast majority of things. But he didn’t feel ready for doing anything else, at least not right then. They hadn’t discussed that. Steve had just said that he’d wanted to kiss Bucky more on the phone. Steve’d never said he wanted to do anything besides that.

Bucky trusted Steve plenty, but not quite enough to allow Steve to see him . . . doing anything besides kissing. What if he made a weird sound or something?!

Bucky couldn’t even do anything to Steve, either. Bucky hadn’t slept with anyone since his ex broke up with him, nearly three years ago now, hadn’t even done anything remotely sexual with another person in a year and a half. He was out of practice, and Steve could just find it somewhere else if Bucky didn’t meet Steve’s standards; the man had all of Twitter clamoring for him, after all. Bucky hadn’t even cleaned down there in months.

But beyond Bucky’s nerves about whatever sounds or faces he might make, beyond the fact that whatever sexual things Bucky tried to do would probably be awful, Bucky wasn’t ready to show Steve any more skin than was exposed by shorts and a T-shirt. He needed time, when they were sitting down and preferably a lot more tipsy than they were right now to explain his shoulder and how it looked and why it looked like that and why it hurt to touch it sometimes. A lot of the time. Right now, in fact.

As if in response to Bucky’s sudden panic, the shoulder, which had been just a quiet ache all evening, felt like a massive, throbbing welt under the suddenly scratchy fabric of his shirt. Bucky needed to tell Steve all this, tell Steve that even though kissing was more than okay, he didn’t want to -- couldn’t -- do anything else tonight, but his tongue felt thick and heavy and knotted.

Bucky practiced his therapeutic breathing exercises hurriedly. He was okay. Steve was a good person. Steve would understand, and if he didn’t, then he didn’t deserve Bucky, right? At least, that’s what his therapist would want him to say.

“Um, Steve,” Bucky squeaked, barely audible over the now-blaring stereo.

“Yeah?” Steve asked, not even looking at him. Steve clearly just expected him to say something funny and nonchalant, like he had been all evening, but Bucky couldn’t find any words like that. Steve probably never got told “maybe later.” He probably would leave and just go find someone else and fuck them instead, and Bucky wouldn’t even be an afterthought.

Bucky swallowed again, breathing too fast through his nose, trying desperately to push all his bad thoughts into a box he could shut and never open again. His sweat was making his glasses fall, and he shoved them up desperately, still fighting for air.

“Bucky? What’s up?” Steve sounded so kind and caring. Steve wouldn’t go fuck someone else, at least not right away, Bucky reasoned to himself. Steve probably would be annoyed, though, and Bucky didn’t want that at all, but he was honestly more concerned with making sure he didn’t have a panic attack and scare Steve off entirely right now than with Steve’s blue balls or lack thereof. Bucky’s sanity was worth more than Steve’s potential annoyance, Bucky reminded himself.

“I, uh,” Bucky cut himself off, his throat too dry to continue. He swallowed, and tried again. “I don’t want to do anything more than kiss tonight, please. I’m, um, just not quite there yet. I’m sorry.”

Bucky glanced at Steve nervously, waiting for Steve to pull over and kick him out of the car, but Steve was instead looking at him in with concern etched in his features between glances at the road.

“Bucky,” Steve started, sounding utterly appalled. “You don’t need to be sorry for not wanting to do something like that. It’s your body, not mine. Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said again, ignoring the fact that he was apologizing for apologizing. “I just didn’t want you to be upset or anything, ‘cause I know you wanted to fuck-” Bucky cut himself off again, realizing how he sounded, before rambling helplessly. “Not that I just assume everyone wants to sleep with me; I just thought ‘cause you said you wanted to more than kiss that that meant fucking. I wasn’t trying to be presumptuous, I just was confused. . . .” Bucky trailed off, feeling like he was about to cry.

“Bucky, hey, you’re all good, I promise. I had just meant that you don’t need to apologize for not wanting to do anything. I don’t want to sleep with you yet, either. I just meant making out by more than a goodnight kiss. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

Bucky wanted it to hurt when Steve said he didn’t want to sleep with him, but instead all he felt was cool relief. Bucky swallowed again, the urge to cry dissipating. Steve had said he didn’t want to sleep with Bucky “yet.” That meant that he still liked Bucky. They were even on the same page about sex. This was a good thing!

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable at all. I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a tendency to overthink,” Bucky mumbled. Steve laughed, and held his hand over the center console. He clearly was looking for Bucky’s, so Bucky put his hand on top of Steve’s and sighed as Steve gave it a tight, reassuring squeeze.

“I would never just spring something like that on you, Bucky. I mean, we had a whole conversation about a kiss, and sex is a lot more than that. But thanks for telling me what you want. I’d hate for you to feel like you didn’t have any agency in this.”

Steve must have read his mind exactly, since he’d said exactly what Bucky needed to hear. Bucky sighed and leaned back into his seat, pulling Steve’s hand into his lap and holding it tightly.

“We can still make out, though,” Bucky said, his voice small.

“Are you sure? You got kinda freaked out there for a minute.”

“I’m sure. I’m just not ready for anything beyond making out, that’s all.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Buck. And I’d love to make out with you when I drop you off.”

Bucky smiled, feeling much calmer now, and squeezed Steve’s hand tightly. “Well, now that that’s over, why the fuck do you listen to so much Madonna?”

And maybe it was the way Steve laughed at that, or the way he tightened his grip on Bucky’s hand periodically just to let Bucky know that they were good, or how Steve kept looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but no matter what, when Bucky let Steve into his apartment, Bucky knew he had never made a better choice in his life.

Steve gave a few customary pats to Eustace as Bucky locked the door behind them, but then his full attention was on Bucky.

As soon as Bucky was done locking the door, Steve’s arms were wrapped tight around Bucky’s waist, their eyes locked and noses practically brushing. It was kind of overwhelming, but in the best way.

“May I?” Steve asked with an air of honest-to-God reverence in his tone as he glanced down at Bucky’s lips.

“Please,” Bucky said. His voice was breathy and weak, but it was more than the nod he’d given the last time they’d done this, so Bucky counted it as a win.

Steve started leaning down, but Bucky surprised himself by reaching up on tiptoe and swinging his arms around Steve’s neck just like he’d wanted to earlier, meeting Steve in the middle.

Steve’s mouth was warm and plush against Bucky’s own, and if Bucky wasn’t leaning against something as solid and steady as Steve, he almost definitely would have toppled over. Steve seemed to sense this, holding Bucky tight against himself, his hands rubbing Bucky’s back, gentle and firm and perfect.

Steve broke apart for the barest of seconds to change the angle of his head, but Bucky stopped him by stepping back slightly.

“Are you okay?” Steve’s hands were still wrapped around Bucky’s hips, his voice gentle.

Bucky nodded and pointed to his glasses. “Just don’t want these getting in the way.”

Steve nodded back, clearly relieved that Bucky was still happy and feeling safe.

Bucky stepped toward the coffee table. His hands were shaking as he took off his glasses and folded them up, putting them down on the wood and turning back to Steve.

His heart was beating a little faster than normal, but how could it not be, with Steve standing over there, his lips pink and slick with spit? Bucky’s hands felt clean; hand sanitizer was the last thing on his mind. His breathing was a little heavy, but, again, how could it not be? He really was okay, Bucky realized with a happy shiver. 

“C’mere,” Bucky said to Steve, emboldened by the realization that he really was doing fine. “Couch is more comfortable.” Bucky gestured lamely at the couch, and Steve seemed to get what Bucky was grasping at.

Steve nodded and crossed over to Bucky.

“Buck?” Steve asked as he laced his fingers lightly into Bucky’s hair.

Bucky had to fight back a whimper. There was a reason his hair was long; he loved having someone touch it, especially when the touch was soft and gentle and safe like this.

“Bucky?” Steve asked again.

“Yeah?”

“You’re so gorgeous right now. Always are, but especially right now. Thought you should know that.”

Bucky blushed again as Steve sat down on the couch and pulled Bucky on top of him, Bucky straddling Steve’s lap.

As they made out for the better part of an hour, rolling over each other until Bucky’s hair was a tangled mess and Steve’s was sticking straight up from Bucky running his hands through it, Steve never tried to indicate he wanted to move toward Bucky’s bedroom, never moved his hands lower than Bucky’s hips, never kissed anywhere below Bucky’s collarbones.

When Bucky felt himself growing too hard to think straight, he gently pushed at Steve’s broad shoulders, since Steve was lying on top of him, nestled in between his legs, and Bucky didn’t really have another way to say he needed to stop since his mouth was otherwise occupied.

Steve pulled back immediately, one hand still cupped around Bucky’s jaw, the thumb just barely grazing Bucky’s bottom lip, the other curled tightly around Bucky’s hip.

“Gotta stop for now,” Bucky groaned. He didn’t want to stop, but he also really didn’t want to dry hump Steve’s leg like he was about to have to.

“Okay, baby,” Steve said, pulling his hand back and sitting up completely. “I should head home, anyway. It’s getting kinda late.”

Bucky smiled at the casual pet name, making a tight fist to resist the temptation to pull Steve back down on top of him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Bucky asked, watching as Steve got up and pulled on his shoes.

Steve looked thoroughly debauched, the way his lips were swollen and his jeans were tented and a light hickey or two was blooming on his jaw. Bucky felt a weird mix of embarrassed and proud that he’d been the one to make Steve look like that, that he’d been the one to mark up Steve.

“Of course,” Steve replied easily. “Kiss goodbye?”

“Of course,” Bucky repeated happily, standing up on his knees and leaning over the back of the couch since he didn’t trust his knees to hold his weight, allowing Steve to duck down and press a quick, chaste kiss to his lips.

“Bye, Buck,” Steve said as he unlocked the door and let himself out.

Bucky sighed and stretched as he got up and locked the door behind Steve, happy to note that, despite a little bit of trembling, his legs were holding his weight.

Bucky wanted to chase Steve down the hall and pull him back in, but that wouldn’t be fair to Steve, nor Bucky’s own erection. No matter how hard it was, Bucky had to let Steve go home.

Bucky smiled when he realized why it was so hard; Steve was . . . well, he was everything Bucky wished for in his countless fantasies and more. Bucky ran a hand through his tangled hair. He was, for lack of a better word, totally smitten.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the break! I was going to post this yesterday, but I got really busy really suddenly. So, I'm sorry but here it is!

“Mmm,” Steve hummed against Bucky’s lips, leaning back and putting a little space between them. “Gotta stop for a minute.”

Bucky rolled off of Steve, flopped against the back of Steve’s couch, head craning back and panting.

It’d been almost three weeks since their first date, and since then they’d fallen into a sort of routine; eat breakfast together at craft service while their knees (and nothing else) brushed, film until eating lunch with whoever was around (usually each other), film some more until wrap was called, and then they’d go their separate ways, texting for at least an hour or two every night about everything from favorite foods to childhood memories. Tuesdays and Saturdays, they’d do something together, always casual and public, before going back to one of their places and making out until they were asphyxiating or so hard that they couldn’t quite think. They weren’t really “date nights,” at least not yet, anyway, but they were close enough for Bucky.

It was late Saturday night, and it seemed like the night was going true to form. They’d gone bowling earlier, and then gone back to Steve’s place to make out since it was closer to the bowling alley.

And, true to form, they were gently extricating themselves from the other the instant one of them was getting too turned on to be comfortable.

The last few almost-dates, they’d just taken a break and gotten some water and gotten back to it, but it didn’t look like it was in the cards that night, since Steve was already standing up and grabbing his keys so he could take Bucky home.

Bucky held back the urge to whine like a five year old getting put in time-out when he saw Steve heading for the garage. He wanted to do something, something more, he really did. Both to cut the sexual tension and, honestly, just to make Steve feel good and satiated after being sat with blue balls for weeks on end now. Steve deserved that, if only for being so patient and gentle with Bucky.

Of course, Bucky didn’t mean like, something-something, but just a little bit of something. Just a handjob or the like, maybe. But Bucky probably shouldn’t, since Steve feeling good was Bucky’s priority after all, and he wasn’t at all sure Steve would feel good if they did anything.

It wasn’t like it would be Bucky’s first handjob or anything, but it would be his first in quite a while. And sure, he jerked off a few times a week, but that was only attending to his own needs, with instant feedback so if anything didn’t feel good, he could fix it. But giving Steve a handjob meant that he’d have no instant feedback, no way of knowing if anything he was doing felt good. No way of knowing if Steve was just humoring him.

So Bucky adjusted himself in his jeans, pulled on his shoes, and let Steve drive him home.

Bucky held Steve’s hand the whole way back, squeezing in lieu of actually bringing it up whenever he wanted to ask about maybe, in a little while, trying something other than kissing. Bucky only let go once they got into the parking garage so Steve could use both hands to park.

“Want me to walk you up?” Steve asked once he’d turned the engine off, taking Bucky’s hand again and rubbing the knuckles with his thumb.

Bucky shook his head; Steve walking him up would only lead to more kissing which would only lead to more sexual frustration from both of them.

“You sure?” Steve asked, pressing his palm to the back of Bucky’s hand. “It’s really no problem.”

“I’m sure. Goodnight kiss?” Bucky asked. He probably sounded horribly dependent, but he really couldn’t get over how much he liked Steve’s kisses, and wanted at least one more before he’d have to wait 36 whole hours to see Steve again, since Steve could never hang out on Sundays.

Steve smiled, though, and leaned in. “Always, Buck.”

Bucky put his hand on the side of Steve’s neck, and Steve hissed softly in pain.

Bucky’s hand flew back as if he’d been burned. Like, burned on the surface of the sun, burned, not just burned on some lowly stove. “Are you okay?” Bucky asked, trying and failing to keep the edge of panic out of his voice.

Steve smiled and nodded and grabbed Bucky’s hand again, which was still raised in the air like he was terrified of it touching someone.

“I’m fine. You were just rubbing a bruise, that’s all.”

Steve turned his head to the side, letting the fluorescent lights of the parking garage illuminate a purple blotch just under his ear. Bucky blushed scarlet and wrapped the arm that wasn’t held by Steve around his middle, ducking his head down like that would hide him from Steve.

That first time they’d made out, he hadn’t even been thinking about whether or not Steve licked hickeys. They’d never talked about it, but Steve had never complained so Bucky had just kept going. That wasn’t at all how consent worked, though; just because someone doesn’t say no, it doesn’t mean they’re saying yes. So, since Bucky didn’t have Steve’s consent and Bucky never, ever wanted to cause Steve pain, he’d stopped leaving hickeys entirely since then.

But here he was, apparently littering bruises on Steve’s skin like they were pedals and he was a flower girl at some chintzy Long Island wedding. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, had thought he was being careful to only kiss and nibble after that first time, not actually bite and suck hard enough to bruise. That made it so much worse; Steve could have been giving him signals to stop, and he probably wasn’t even conscious of it.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbled, apologizing not for touching it, but for leaving it in the first place, and rubbing the back of Steve’s hand with the hand he didn’t have wrapped around his middle.

Steve laughed good-naturedly and squeezed Bucky’s hand firmly. “It’s just a hickey. I’ve had worse bruises.”

Bucky knew it was true, that this was a minor thing, but it still stung awfully that he might have hurt Steve. “Still sorry,” Bucky said stubbornly, still not meeting Steve’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

Steve laughed again and raised Bucky’s hand so he could kiss the back of it. That made Bucky look up again, blushing for an entirely different reason than the shame he’d been feeling earlier. “I promise, I’m fine. Now go and get some sleep. You’ve been working yourself to the bone.”

Bucky nodded in agreement; Steve was right. He’d been to set early nearly every day, expediting at least a few things before eating breakfast with Steve, and had stayed late almost every night except Tuesdays since that was when him and Steve went on dates. It wasn’t a big deal, really. He didn’t have anything to do other than text with and hang out with Steve and pet Eustace. But he was exhausted, having not really given himself a break since his semester at Columbia had ended almost two whole months ago.

Bucky nodded. “Promise you’re okay?” His voice was small and plaintive, but Steve didn’t seem to mind as he kissed the back of Bucky’s hand again.

“Promise. Goodnight kiss for real?”

Bucky nodded and leaned over the center console, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to Steve’s lips before heading up to his apartment so he wouldn’t cause any more sexual frustration than he already was.

Not that he assumed he was some catch or anything, but he’d felt evidence of Steve’s sexual frustration against him more than a few times.

That in mind, Bucky’s resolve strengthened; he was gonna give Steve a fucking handjob before the month was out. And he’d do everything he could to make it good, even if he was woefully out of practice.

The next morning, after eating a granola bar and taking a brief shower, Bucky was clutching his phone in his hand, mulling over his options again and again.

He didn’t really want to make whole new connections at the VA in California; he liked the one in New York already, but the fact of the matter was that the VA in New York couldn’t set him up with a therapist here, which meant that the California VA was his only option.

Bucky hit the call button before he could overthink it and pressed the phone to his ear. He was wearing Steve’s hoodie again, having “forgotten” to return it and the sweatpants every time they’d seen each other. He was wearing it partially because the hoodie was warm and soft, and partially because he needed a reminder of why he was calling the VA in the first place. As the phone rang on the other end, Bucky ran his thumb over the sleeve of the hoodie, liking the way the stitching scratched gently against his hand.

After a few moments, the line clicked as someone picked it up. “Los Angeles VA office, this is Sam Wilson speaking. How can I help you?”

Bucky’s blood ran cold and it took everything in Bucky’s body to not hang up the phone and toss it in the toilet. As it was, he dropped the phone unceremoniously on the bed. Sam Wilson was on the other end! As in, Steve’s friend Sam Wilson. As in, the Sam Wilson who would tell Steve that Bucky needed to get fucking therapy in order to be able give Steve a handjob.

Bucky wrapped his arms around his middle and blew out a slow breath, begging his heart and breathing to slow down. As much as he wanted to avoid embarrassing himself to Steve’s friend (and, therefore, to Steve), getting therapy was probably more important. 

Bucky leaned down and scooped up the phone sheepishly, putting it to his ear. “Um, hi. I was in the army about ten years ago, and I recently moved from the New York area, and I was wondering if I could set up a therapy appointment.”

“Of course!” Sam said brightly.

Bucky covered his eyes with his hand like that would help disguise him somehow.

“I just need to ask a few questions so I can create a profile for you in our database since the New York VA office doesn’t really communicate with us. Then, with the profile, I can match you with the right therapist for your needs. That okay?”

It wasn’t okay; the more details Bucky gave, the more information Sam would have to put two and two together to figure out who Bucky was and the more dirt he would have to spill to Steve. He had never wanted to hang up so bad in his life. Bucky rubbed the sleeve of the hoodie more quickly to wipe off the sweat gathering on his palms, and, thankfully, it simultaneously served as a reminder of why the hell he was doing this.

“Hello?” Sam asked, obviously confused by the grossly long pause.

“Hi, sorry. You can ask me a few questions, sure.”

“Great! Firstly, can I get your name, please?”

Bucky’s mind flew as he figured out how to hide his name, the most obvious giveaway, since he was probably the only person named Bucky in the entire country, if not the world. He could give his name as James, since Sam only knew him as Bucky and James was technically his name, anyway. That covered the first name. For his last, well, there were probably a quarter of a million people with the last name Barnes in LA alone, so Sam wouldn’t be able to pin down who he was through that alone. “James Barnes,” Bucky muttered.

“Okay, James,” Sam continued. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be a hint of recognition in his voice. “How long has it been since you served?”

Bucky squeezed his hands into fists. He could lie completely and prevent Sam from getting anything concrete about his identity, but that would prevent him from being open and vulnerable and honest and, therefore, go against the very point of him seeking out therapy. “I got discharged about ten years ago.”

“Okay. What were the circumstances of your discharge?”

Bucky released his fists and switched to drumming his fingers on his thigh almost angrily, instead. “Honorable.”

“Are you currently employed?”

“Yes.” Bucky prayed silently that Sam wouldn’t press it any further, would just accept the fact that he was employed and move on. Bucky’s connection to Steve was through his job; it’d make it too easy for Sam to connect the dots. Even if Bucky said Columbia, that’d be too simple, too; how many Columbia professors went on sabbatical to LA and were discharged ten years ago?! It didn’t matter that Bucky hadn’t mentioned that he worked at Columbia when he was at the Fourth of July party; Steve might have mentioned it to Sam himself.

Not that Bucky assumed that Steve talked about him to Steve’s friends, that Bucky was worth talking about at all. It was just too big a risk to take.

Thankfully, Sam moved on. “Reason for seeking therapy?”

“I’m having some trouble being, um, vulnerable in a new relationship.” Bucky knew he’d given himself away. How much more obvious could he be? Sam was probably texting Steve as they spoke, providing all of Bucky’s answers with mocking emojis after. Steve was probably going to text Bucky as soon as Bucky hung up and tell him: “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather have blue balls for life than let you give me a handjob.” Bucky pulled his knees onto the bed and hid his face in between them.

“Alright, thanks so much. I can get you in for an in-person appointment September 24.”

Bucky shook his head. That was more than a month and a half away, and he wanted to make Steve feel good and happy and satiated, like, yesterday. Bucky knew if he tried to bring up the idea of going further without talking to someone else, someone qualified, first, he’d inevitably mess up and freak Steve out. But Bucky also couldn’t wait any longer to do something with Steve. Steve was a like a gift sent down from heaven for Bucky; Steve deserved to feel good by way of something other than his own right hand.

Admittedly, Bucky’s motives were also a little selfish; after all, the fact that Steve was pretty much Bucky’s own personal sex symbol didn’t at all hinder his desire to give Steve a handjob.

“Is there any way to get an appointment sooner?” Bucky asked, twisting a lock of hair around his left index finger.

Sam laughed. “Tenacious, huh?”

Bucky blushed. “I guess.”

“Well, I’ll level with you, James. Technically, no, I can’t get you an appointment sooner, but, since you must have done some good stuff to get an honorable discharge and, since you just moved, you probably don’t have a support system out here yet, I’ll see if I can get you into someone’s lunch hour.”

Bucky breathed a sigh of relief. Of course Steve was friends with Sam; Sam, just like Steve was a Good Guy, an absolute mensch.

“Can you hold for a few minutes?”

“Yes, of course,” Bucky said gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course.”

The line clicked and went to some awful hold muzak. Bucky laid back on his bed, absently trying to remember if he’d already ordered a refill of his pain meds. Within a few minutes, the line clicked again and Sam was back.

“It’s your lucky day, James! We had a cancellation, so I can get you a phone appointment in an hour. That work?”

Bucky beamed; thank fuck for good people and well-timed cancellations. “Yeah, that’s good. Thank you so much.”

“Of course, man! Can we call you back at this number?”

“Yep.”

The line clicked as Sam hung up the phone, and Bucky stretched out a little bit, the tension in his spine unbending itself slightly from the relief that came with the knowledge of his appointment. He was going to fix his problem! He was okay.

The hour before the call passed painfully slowly. Bucky walked around in circles around his apartment, agitating Eustace, who had been peacefully asleep, but was now meowing, clearly annoyed, at Bucky’s frantic footfalls. He tried watching an episode of Star Trek, but couldn’t get through the first five minutes without getting up and pacing again. He had even tried playing Candy Crush, for chrissake, to get the time to pass faster.

He didn’t even know why he was freaking out; it was just therapy. He’d done it a million times. But nine hundred and ninety nine thousand of those times, it’d been with someone he’d met before. What if his new therapist wasn’t helpful? What if they laughed at him? What if they told him, probably accurately, a simple handjob was no big deal and he just needed to get over himself?

Finally, when Bucky was bare seconds away from tearing his hair out, his phone rang. He scrambled to pick it up and hit Accept Caller.

“Hello,” he said hurriedly.

“Hi.” The voice on the other head was calm and pleasant, female but a little on the deep side. Relaxing. “Is this James Barnes?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbled.

“My name is Dr. Carol Danvers. So, just to tell you a little about me, I was Air Force in the nineties, and was medically discharged about fifteen years ago. I decided I wanted to help people after my discharge, so I got my degree at the University of Portland and went into work with the VA. Would you be okay introducing yourself?”

Bucky nodded before realizing she couldn’t see him, and then swallowed and said, “Sure. I’m James.” He had decided during that painfully long hour to keep using James, just in case Sam and Danvers were friends. “I was a Sergeant in the 107th Division. I was honorably discharged about ten years ago. Decided to go to college and I became a professor of history, specializing in World War I.” It’s been a while since Bucky felt obligated to provide his military rank to someone, and it somehow feels both alien and correct at the same time.

“Thanks, James. What made you decide to seek therapy today?” 

Dr. Danvers seemed pleased about Bucky’s choice to divulge his abridged life story, which gave Bucky a modicum of confidence as he plowed on. “I’m, uh,” Bucky paused, thinking about where to start. He mainly wanted therapy to give him the confidence and clarity to be ready to go further with Steve, but he knew that he needed therapy for more than that. He didn’t want to go back to the roots of all of his anxiety; he’d already done that and it’d taken three years of weekly sessions and way too many hours of crying. “I was diagnosed with anxiety less than a month after my discharge. I’ve had it pretty under control, but I’ve started seeing someone, and, um, it’s getting in the way,” Bucky sighed, satisfied that he’d mentioned his specific purpose as well as giving Danvers a general background; this way, he’d get specific help as well as a foundation for future visits.

Bucky was also glad that he was so careful to leave out Steve’s pronouns in case Danvers freaked on him; you could never tell how homophobic someone was, especially with army types.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

Bucky clutched the sleeves of Steve’s hoodie. It was almost as comforting as Steve himself. “I, uh, really like them. And I wanna take things, uh, a little further with them. But it’s hard, because I can’t help thinking about what would happen if they didn’t like it, or if something weird happens, or . . . something.”

Bucky felt embarrassment twinge up from the pit of his stomach at the idea that he was discussing his sex life with a complete stranger, a stranger who was mutual friends, or at least mutual acquaintances, with the person Bucky’s sex life was currently centered around.

But Danvers was every bit the professional. Bucky and her ended up talking for nearly the entire hour, with a promise to call at six in the evening the next Sunday. As Bucky hung up, he realized shyly that Danvers was almost certainly asking him to call during her personal hours. He was that fucked up.

But at least he had a plan now; Tuesday night, instead of making out with Steve, they’d talk. And, if all went as planned, Bucky would finally give Steve a hand job soon after.

***

The hours leading up to Tuesday night, in stark contrast to Sunday morning, went way too fast for Bucky’s liking. He’d spent all of Sunday afternoon and Monday deciding what to tell Steve, and now that the day was here, Bucky was feeling slightly sick.

They’d gone to get dinner at some old diner that Steve insisted Bucky would love (he did -- they had vintage Star Wars posters in the bathroom), and now, sitting on Steve’s couch while Steve made him tea since he’d complained that his stomach was hurting (it really was), Bucky had to fight the urge to get an Uber and go back to his apartment.

“You want honey?” Steve asked from the kitchen.

Bucky wished he’d worn Steve’s hoodie. It was softer than the Oxford shirt he had on now, and would be comfier to cry in once Steve laughed at the idea of Bucky giving him a handjob. The idea, after all, was laughable; Steve almost definitely didn’t want to have to go through the process of being patient with Bucky while Bucky gave him a mediocre handjob, especially since Steve was probably getting it somewhere else. It only made sense, really. If Steve wasn’t getting his rocks off by someone else, he would have pressed Bucky into something other than kissing by now. Assuming that he was still interested in Bucky at all, that is.

Bucky hoped Steve would still let Bucky be his friend after rejecting him; Bucky liked Steve’s company more than he wanted to admit.

“Buck?”

Bucky blushed at the pet name and shook his head as if that would clear it of his nerves. “Sorry, what?”

“Do you want any honey in your tea?” Steve sounded perplexed and just a little concerned. Bucky felt bad; he was just nervous, not trying to, like, manipulate Steve into feeling concerned for him or anything like that.

“Just a little bit, please.”

Bucky wasn’t even sure he wanted honey -- he mostly just wanted another minute or two to think and pull at the pink hair tie around his wrist.

Danvers had said wearing a rubber band or something similar and snapping it when he recognized a bad thought pattern would help him identify anxiety spirals and put a stop to them. He tugged at the hair tie on his wrist to try to do this; he hadn’t wanted to wear a rubber band in front of Steve since he thought it might be too obvious.

He needed to stop thinking of himself as corollary to Steve, Bucky reminded himself. They were equals, and, therefore, their needs and wants were equal. Danvers had said that about a hundred times, yet Bucky was still struggling to get it through his head. He’d just keep repeating it until it stuck. He was nothing if not tenacious.

Way too soon, Steve was sitting down next to him and putting Bucky’s mug on the coffee table. Bucky leaned forward to pick it up, not missing how his and Steve’s knees were brushing. It was a good kind of contact; not enough to distract him from his words, but enough to almost act as reassurance.

Bucky almost laughed out loud at that thought; less than two months ago, this kind of touch would have brought Bucky to the brink of nervous tears. Now, all it did was make him feel good and safe. That was a good sign. A great one, really. If casual contact with Steve actually made him feel safe instead of catatonic, that might have meant that he was actually ready to go further with Steve.

Bucky took a long sip of tea, both to calm himself down and to remind himself of the fact that he was okay, that this was okay, and it was about to be, hopefully, even more okay. And if Steve didn’t want it to be more than okay, then Bucky could deal with that. Probably. He shouldn’t think about that right now; it’d just make him more nervous.

“Hey, Steve? Can we talk?” Bucky finally asked, putting his mug down in front of him.

Steve turned to face Bucky, putting his own hand on Bucky’s knee all soft and casual. “What’s up?”

Bucky turned to face Steve, lifting his legs and folding them so he was sitting criss-cross in front of Steve. Steve’s hand was still on his knee.

“Um, I want to talk to you about something,” Bucky mumbled.

Steve laughed and squeezed Bucky’s knee. “I could tell.” Steve’s tone wasn’t unkind, but the realization that Bucky was being completely repetitive made Bucky blush.

“I think I’m, uh, ready to do more than kissing,” Bucky stammered, gaze trained on his own lap, his right hand coming up and rubbing the back of his neck. His left hand stayed loose by his side. His shoulder wasn’t really hurting, but Bucky didn’t want to jinx it by moving it and then have to go home to deal with the pain before this conversation was over.

Steve just nodded, his face a mask of polite interest. It felt kind of detached, and Bucky’s heart seized unpleasantly as he rushed to continue by asking, “Where are you, like, in terms of that?”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s knee again. “I think I’m there, too. The last few times we made out got pretty close to me having to jerk off in the bathroom before I could drive you home.”

Bucky laughed at how blunt Steve was being and shielded his face with his right hand, embarrassed. 

“So, um, what do you want that to look like?” Steve asked, squeezing Bucky’s knee until he put his hand down.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, more-than-kissing is a lot of territory. What do you feel comfortable with right now?”

Bucky wrapped his arm around his middle; he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Chiding himself for being so shortsighted, Bucky mumbled, “I really wanna give you a handjob.”

Steve was smiling now, and Bucky delighted to see a hint of a blush on the tips of his ears. “Yeah? Can I give you one, too?”

Bucky paused, thinking. He hadn’t expected that. He had, despite the notion that he and Steve were equals, truly believed that Steve wouldn’t care enough to reciprocate. That meant that he actually had to think about whether he even wanted Steve to reciprocate.

Getting a handjob was a whole new territory from giving one. Bucky’d already made peace with giving one, but getting one was, honestly, scarier; he hated not being in control, and getting a handjob would almost definitely lead into that territory. Of course, Steve would always stop if Bucky needed him to, Bucky knew that much. But if he made a weird sound, or a weird face or something, Steve would be privy to all of that. But Steve Rogers’s hand around him?! That, in and of itself, was a lot to think about.

Steve must have Bucky’s silence for pure apprehension instead of the mix of emotions it was, because he began to rub Bucky’s knee with his thumb and continued, “We could go slow, if you’re nervous. You don’t have to, um, finish the first few times if you don’t want to.”

Bucky fought back a nervous giggle at how crass that sounded, releasing his hands from his middle. “I really want to. But, uh . . .” he drifted off, trying desperately to remember Danvers’s advice. Be honest, Barnes. “I’m kind of scared.”

The grip on Bucky’s knee tightened, and Bucky stared down into his own lap again.

“Can you tell me why?” Steve’s voice was measured and gentle and caring.

Bucky took a deep breath through his nose. “What if you don’t like it -- like me? What if I don’t meet your standards or something?” The last part was whispered since Bucky’s throat felt painfully tight, but Steve must have heard, because his thumb stilled on Bucky’s knee.

“Buck, you’re beautiful.” Steve’s voice was barely more than a breath. “I’m not gonna make fun of you or leave or something. Can you trust me?”

“I want to. I’m just scared.” Bucky’s voice was small and shaky, but Steve didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s okay. Trust is scary. I trust you, though.”

Bucky finally looked up, and saw Steve was looking at him. His gaze was steely and serious, yet tender and somehow gentle at the same time. The hickeys present on his collarbones in contrast to Steve’s expression made Bucky smile just a little bit, even though he still felt bad about leaving that many without realizing it; the dichotomy between Steve’s seriousness and the evidence of his debauchery was just adorable.

“Okay, yeah,” Bucky finally said, breaking the tension. “I want you to.”

Steve smiled and Bucky felt a weird flip in the pit of his stomach.

“But, um,” Bucky said, remembering his hard and fast rule. “I don’t wanna take my shirt off just yet.”

Steve’s mouth opened and Bucky cringed, dreading the instant Steve asked him why, but Steve’s mouth just closed again. “That’s fine. What about pants?”

Bucky blushed, once again realizing how crass this was. “Pants are okay. Not underwear yet, though.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. For the record, I’m good going clothes-less for right now.”

“Duly noted.”

“‘Duly noted?’ What are you, a secretary?” Steve teased gently.

Bucky blushed and leaned forward to poke Steve’s side right where he was ticklish.

“Hey!” Steve yelped, recoiling. “That’s fighting dirty.”

“Never again,” Bucky laughed and pulled at the hem of Steve’s shirt, pulling Steve back next to him.

Steve flopped next to Bucky and pulled Bucky in closer to him. “Can I kiss you?” Steve asked, his nose pushed against Bucky’s temple.

Bucky nodded and leaned up and into the soft, insistent press of Steve’s lips.

“So, do you want to try it now?” Steve asked when he pulled away, slinging an arm around Bucky’s waist.

Bucky hadn’t thought about that. He’d honestly thought that he’d break down crying and, since that would ruin the mood, he wouldn’t have to deal with actually doing anything for a while yet.

“Buck?” Steve asked, pulling his arm back to look at Bucky more critically.

“Not yet,” Bucky finally stuttered. “But soon.”

Steve smiled, appearing satisfied. “Can we make out now, then, instead?”

Bucky laughed and let Steve manhandle him into a straddling position over Steve’s hips.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Bucky was, for lack of a better word, utterly fucked.

Someone was at the door, and he was half-naked and reading an article from Teen fucking Vogue about how to give a good handjob.

He’d just been getting past the obvious (use lube, use pressure, communicate, etc), and was into the nitty-gritty about how to spin his wrist getting tired as something sexy, when the doorbell had rung. Bucky was literally about to jerk off, but now he had to answer the door, half-hard and with no options to cover his chest and shoulder other than throwing on a fucking Jedi robe from Halloween last year, seeing as it was the only clean thing that would cover his shoulder since he was in the middle of doing laundry.

He could stop the washing machine, he supposed, and throw on a soaking T-shirt, but that would probably be even weirder than the Jedi robe.

“Who is it?” Bucky called from the living room, throwing his phone down next to him and pacing in circles to try to figure out a solution.

“Steve. I said I’d pick you up at two.”

Bucky grabbed his phone from where he’d left it on the couch. Sure enough, the time read two pm on the dot.

Fuck nuts. Shit. This was literally the worst possible scenario Bucky could have dreamed of. How could he have lost track of time so quickly? Steve had said last week that he wanted to take Bucky to get ice cream today, and Bucky’d had it penciled in neatly in his calendar since then.

Yet, some-fucking-how, Bucky had gotten the time wrong. He blamed Danvers momentarily for telling him to stop setting an alarm on weekends, claiming that it’d help lull him into a sense of relaxation; if he’d had an alarm, he’d have been up at eight instead of ten and his laundry would be done by now. But he’d taken her apparently shitty advice and had woken up at ten and was now sitting, shirtless and panicked, while his clothes tumbled helplessly mere feet away.

“Can I come in?” Steve asked, a lilt of teasing in his voice.

Bucky dragged a hand over his face. If he just let Steve in, Steve would get freaked out and probably be more in need of therapy than Bucky; it wasn’t that the scarring was that much, it was just that ugly. It was, honestly, gross, and Steve didn’t deserve to be subjected to that. Especially since Bucky had chickened out the last three times he’d tried to give Steve a handjob, stopping as soon as his hand had found Steve’s zipper and felt Steve’s erection against it.

Steve’d been nice about it, of course, but that didn’t stop the hot bubble of shame that burst in the pit of Bucky’s stomach every time it happened.

“Bucky? Everything okay in there?” Steve was still teasing, but there was a hint of concern there, too.

Bucky needed to focus and figure out a plan. Fast. But, short of praying that Eustace would turn into a full flesh-and-blood person and grab the door for Steve while Bucky hid in his own bedroom, there were no good options.

“Everything’s fine!” Bucky shouted, his voice weirdly high.

“You sound kinda weird, Bucky. Do you want me to leave?” Steve’s voice was now only concerned, and it made Bucky nervous. He wasn’t doing anything weird! He was just protecting Steve. That’s not how Steve would see it, though; he’d think Bucky was hiding things from him or something.

Bucky was sorely tempted to ask Steve to wait, like, twenty minutes so he could emergency call Danvers and try to work through his issues so he could finally let Steve into the apartment, but that plan didn’t make any sense; Danvers was almost certainly busy, and forcing Steve to wait while Bucky took a phone call would just alarm Steve more.

Bucky tried desperately to think of ways to cover his shoulder. Bucky couldn’t even throw on a coat and zip it up and pretend like he was freezing; he hadn’t brought any coats besides the hoodies conveniently located in the wash from home, seeing as he wouldn’t even be there for the winter with filming ending in December, and that it was LA, a famously temperate city.

Bucky’s options were so limited it was making him feel sick; it was Jedi robe or wet T-shirt or hot tears of shame as he turned Steve away. He couldn’t even put on his swim shirt since it had been stained with sunscreen and he’d thrown it in the wash, too.

He had a singular tank top, a tye-dye one from before he served that he’d kept for memory’s sake still in his dresser, but it was tight in all the wrong places and, most importantly, wouldn’t do anything to hide the worst of the scarring. He could wear that and maybe wrap himself in, like, a blanket or something, but that would probably look even weirder than the Jedi robe.

Bucky was so focused on covering his top half that he hadn’t even thought about what to do with the fact that he was in a pair of navy boxers with a hole right at the crotch.

“Buck? I can come back later if something’s up.”

For the barest of moments, Bucky hated how much of a mensch Steve was. It made Bucky seem like even more of an asshole for not answering the door. Of course, since Steve was such a mensch, Bucky could probably just be honest, tell Steve he’d messed up the time, and then Steve would leave and come back when Bucky’s clothes were dry.

But that’s the last thing Bucky wanted. He didn’t want to stand Steve up, even if it was completely by accident. Steve deserved better than that. Steve deserved better than Bucky entirely, but that was a thought for a different day.

“I’m gonna go, Bucky. Will you text me?”

“No!” Bucky cried, his voice strangled. “Please don’t go.”

Bucky heard a soft thunk on the door, like Steve was resting his head against it. “Then can I come in?”

No, he couldn’t. But not even Bucky was that much of an asshole, so Bucky sighed and resigned himself to the Jedi robe, since the wet T-shirt might start an infection or something over his arm, and that would inevitably lead to even more scarring.

“Give me one minute. And don’t say a motherfucking word about what I’m wearing.”

Bucky ran to his room, dug through the closet, and found the robe, just a little bit moth-bitten and folded sloppily in the back corner. Bucky threw it on, hating how thin the fabric was, but appreciating the fact that it stretched down almost to his ankles and, therefore, felt remarkably protective. The only issue was that it didn’t close, so Bucky would either have to belt it with a shoelace or something and look even more bizarre, or hold it closed with one hand. He elected to hold it closed; it made him more vulnerable and less mobile, but at least he wouldn’t look even stupider than he already did.

He picked up a bottle of hand sanitizer and rubbed in a dollop to help avoid the moth-y germs the fabric probably carried.

“Sorry,” Bucky called through the door as he ran over and opened the door for Steve.

Of course Steve looked perfect, in gray joggers and a black muscle shirt with his hair artfully tousled so he looked relaxed yet almost artificially flawless. Steve’s face split open in a smile looking at Bucky, but it wasn’t the usual kind smile he wore; this one held a lot more mirth.

Bucky glared pointedly at Steve’s muscled biceps, both for existing, which made him feel inadequate while swaddled into his stupid Jedi robe, and for making him feel hot under the collar when he couldn’t even do anything about it without getting shy and wanting to sob.

Bucky pushed the door open and held it with his foot, gesturing for Steve to come in with one hand while holding the robe closed with the other.

“Aren’t you worried you’re going to spill ice cream on your robes, young Padawan?” Steve asked while slipping his shoes off, not even saying “hi.”

Bucky felt his stomach drop. This was a mistake. He should have just told Steve to come back later, but he was here now and there was nothing Bucky could do but smile awkwardly about it.

Bucky flipped Steve off without any malice behind it and swung the door closed. “You said you wouldn’t comment,” he muttered, locking the door and turning to face Steve.

“No, you said I wouldn’t comment. I never said a thing,” Steve teased, crossing in front of Bucky to flop down on the couch.

“Just don’t, please,” Bucky muttered. There was one layer of thin fabric between his shoulder and Steve’s eyes, and it was being held closed by his hand, while Steve looked like he always did; like a fucking Adonis. There wasn’t much that could make this worse.

“I mean, I really shouldn’t. You have the high ground and all,” Steve teased, appearing not to have heard Bucky and gesturing at how Bucky was looming over the back of the couch, brooding plaintively.

“Steve,” Bucky sighed, trying desperately to convey soundlessly that Steve needed to shut up right then and there.

“I should stop, huh? Wouldn’t want you to force-choke me.”

Bucky tried to find the words to explain that it wasn’t funny, that he had messed up and was freaked out about it, but nothing eloquent would come out of his mouth, so Bucky turned and went to get himself a glass of water to soothe the ache in his throat.

“Silent treatment, huh? Pretending to be a force ghost?” Steve teased again. Bucky heard the couch shifting and assumed that Steve had stretched out on it like he wasn’t doing anything adverse to Bucky.

Which, really, he wasn’t. Bucky was just being a baby. He needed to grow the fuck up and accept the fact that he looked like a twat and he deserved to be mocked for it.

But Bucky couldn’t help it when he slammed the cabinet closed after grabbing a glass and snapped, “That’s not even how force ghosts work, you asshole.”

It was a playground insult, stupid and useless and vapid as all-hell, but it was all Bucky’s brain could think of through the alarm klaxons blaring in between his ears.

Bucky turned on the sink and closed his eyes as his glass filled, begging for something to calm him down. He didn’t even have a rubber band or a hair tie on his wrist to break bad thought patterns like Danvers had told him to, had forgotten it just like he had apparently forgot everything else today.

He didn’t open them until he felt cool water running over his fingers; he’d overfilled his glass. Bucky put the glass down on the counter and flicked the tap off, keeping one hand clenched on his robe. He downed the glass in three gulps, still with his back to the living room where Steve was probably still sprawled languidly on Bucky’s couch, scrolling through Twitter and replying to his billions of adoring fangirls.

Except, when Bucky put his glass in the sink and turned around again, Steve was leaning against the opposite counter with his arms crossed under his chest.

“What?” Bucky snapped thickly, refusing to let his startle at Steve’s sudden movement show.

“What’s up?” Steve pressed.

“Nothing, just getting a glass of water,” Bucky replied.

Steve raised an eyebrow, seeing through Bucky’s bullshit easily.

“Are you okay, Buck?” Steve’s face was a mask of concern. For the barest of moments, Bucky appreciated Steve’s acting skills; he was really doing a bang-up job of looking concerned, even though he clearly wasn’t. If Steve had actually been concerned, he would have stopped teasing earlier.

“Fine,” Bucky said, feeling the ache in his throat again.

Steve’s face softened and he frowned. “I messed up, huh? I’m sorry for teasing you,” Steve said softly.

He did look sorry, his smile from earlier gone and replaced by a gentle blush of embarrassment.

“Sorry for calling you an asshole,” Bucky muttered, staring down at Steve’s purple compression socks. He wasn’t sure if he meant it, since Steve had kind of deserved it, but it seemed the right thing to say after Steve’s apology.

“Don’t worry about it, Buck. Now, be honest; are you okay?”

Bucky shrugged. He wanted to cry, since Steve had teased him about something directly adjacent to what he was most sensitive about, and it was hurting, but he didn’t want Steve to be mad at himself for making Bucky cry. A shrug was all that seemed appropriate; non-committal and vague, making it so Bucky wasn’t lying, but he also definitely wasn’t telling the truth.

Steve frowned and walked over to Bucky, his arms outstretched before he retracted them again awkwardly just short of Bucky’s torso. “Can I hug you?”

“Fine,” Bucky said again, still not looking up.

Steve’s arms wrapped tight around him, locking him into a warm vice grip. Steve pressed a kiss to his temple, and it made Bucky shiver. Even though it was just a simple hug and apology, Bucky felt so much calmer than he had since Steve rung the doorbell.

“You look adorable, by the way,” Steve mumbled into Bucky’s hair. “You should wear Jedi robes more often.”

Bucky lifted the hand that wasn’t holding the robe and poked Steve in the ribs, finding Steve’s joke actually funny, but still peeved at him. Steve giggled but just held Bucky tighter. “I’m sorry, baby, really.”

The use of “baby” made Bucky blush and relax just a bit into Steve’s touch. Steve really did seem to be sorry.

“Why’d you do it then?” Bucky asked. He knew he was being annoying and a pain in the ass by being repetitive like this, but he couldn’t help himself; Steve had hurt his feelings, and, if Danvers was right and they were equals, then Bucky’s feelings getting hurt mattered as much as Steve’s potential annoyance with Bucky.

“I just thought it was cute and kind of funny. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m so sorry, Buck. I messed up.”

That was good enough for Bucky; seeing someone draped in a Halloween costume in late August was pretty funny, so it must have been a natural reaction. Bucky let himself relax and lean his head on Steve’s chest. It’d been innocent, and it was really Bucky’s own fault for having such a thin skin.

Steve moved one hand from how it was wound around Bucky’s middle to pet Bucky’s hair softly. “You okay?”

Bucky nodded; it wasn’t really a big deal. He’d just been caught off-guard by Steve showing up before Bucky was ready and having to hide his shoulder, and deal with the weird, skittery pain that the scratchy fabric of the robe rubbing against him was causing.

“Are we okay?” Steve asked, moving his hand lower and rubbing the back of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky wanted to pull away and tell Steve that he wasn’t a cat and that rubbing his neck wasn’t going to placate him, but it did feel awfully nice. Steve smelled warm and soft, almost like ginger. It was just . . . nice. As much as Bucky liked kissing Steve, Bucky liked being held by him more, he decided.

And, really, Bucky was placated. Steve and Bucky were a “we.” And that meant that a little light-hearted teasing wasn’t enough to shatter that notion.

“We’re okay,” Bucky mumbled after a moment of just appreciating Steve’s touch, pulling away slightly so he didn’t look as needy as he felt. Steve kept his arms around Bucky, holding him there, and Bucky wasn’t going to complain; the contact was nice and soothing, especially considering how freaked out Bucky had been minutes before.

“Can I ask about the robe, though?” Steve was biting the inside of his lip, clearly trying to hold back a laugh at Bucky’s expense.

Bucky crossed his arms and stared down at the floor. He was dangerously close to having to explain to Steve everything that was wrong with him, and the thought was more than daunting. It was terrifying.

He was fucked up in more ways than one, beyond just having anxiety. He had a real, physical ugliness that he couldn’t bear to look at half the time, let alone subject someone he cared about to. Even around his own parents, Bucky wore a shirt 24/7, 365. It had taken nearly eighteen months of therapy to be okay with even a short sleeve shirt, even when all the scars were concentrated on his shoulder and a short sleeve shirt didn’t show anything. The only people who even knew about the scars were immediate family, therapists, and doctors. It was Bucky’s shame, and he couldn’t talk about it, especially not with someone as physically immaculate as Steve Rogers. It’d be like a slug discussing its insecurities with a phoenix: pitiful. And pathetic. But how else could Bucky explain his stupid fucking Jedi robe?

It wasn’t like Bucky could just dodge the question, either. Steve had asked him outright, and ignoring it would probably weird Steve out almost as much as Bucky’s fucking shoulder already would.

“I lost track of time and I was doing laundry and all my shirts are in the machine, so I had nothing else to wear,” Bucky muttered. It was the truth, after all. Just a heavily redacted version.

“So, naturally, you chose to wear a Jedi robe,” Steve said patiently.

Steve was clearly teasing him again, and Bucky wanted to yell that Steve just didn’t get it, but he held back. Steve wouldn’t get it. He had no reason to. No experience to base “getting it” off of. And, in Steve’s defense, the Jedi robe was probably a little more on the bizarre side of what Bucky could have done to cover up, but it really was the best option. Bucky just needed to stick to his guns; he was right, even if Steve didn’t get it.

“Naturally,” Bucky replied firmly.

Steve nodded and squeezed Bucky’s hip with the hand that Bucky had forgotten was resting there. It made Bucky simultaneously blush and calm down.

“Do you still want to get ice cream?” Steve had a small smile spreading across his face, and, while Bucky knew it was at his expense, Bucky smiled back.

“Can we wait until I have clothes to wear?”

“Yeah, of course. Do you want to wear mine until yours are dry? I’m okay just being in my boxers for a while, if you need.”

Bucky desperately wanted to say yes. If being wrapped in Steve’s clean hoodie was intoxicating to him, wearing clothes of Steve’s that actually smelled like Steve would probably send Bucky directly into a coma. But Steve’s shirt was a muscle tank. Even though Steve’s shoulders were impossibly broad, it wouldn’t be enough. Everything would be open and on display for Steve. And then Steve would leave, and Bucky would be sat on his couch, clutching a Jedi robe and regretting the day he was born. So Bucky just shook his head and drew the stupid robe tighter around his shoulders.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said after a moment. “What should we do until my clothes are dry?”

Bucky meant it entirely innocently. But Steve’s eyebrows quirked up and he ran his tongue along his lips and then Bucky was covering his eyes with his free hand and shaking his head.

“We can watch a movie?” Steve asked, rubbing Bucky’s hip with his thumb almost as an apology for insinuating anything Bucky meant anything even slightly sexual.

“Okay.”

So they wound up on the couch, Bucky’s head leaning on Steve’s shoulder and Steve’s arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist as Ghostbusters played on the TV. It was a lot of touching, but Steve was staying stock still like the barest movement might scare Bucky off into curling into a ball on the other end of the couch. It probably would, but it was still comforting to Bucky that Steve was being so considerate.

To be honest, Bucky wasn’t even really watching the movie. Instead, he was thinking about how warm Steve was and how much Bucky wanted to just quirk his head up a little bit and kiss Steve’s dusting of five o’clock shadow. But that would lead to making out, which practically necessitated Bucky losing his death grip on holding his robe closed so he’d have his hands free to touch Steve’s immaculate body, and that was unacceptable.

So Bucky just sat there, ensconced by Steve’s protective grip and feeling like he was going just a little bit bonkers with barely contained horniness, until it was time to change his laundry twenty minutes into the movie.

Getting up to change his laundry was barely a reprieve, though, since Steve followed Bucky to the little alcove where his machine was kept and leaned against the doorframe, innocently going on about how much Ghostbusters freaked him out when he was a kid.

That is, until he saw Bucky take Steve’s hoodie out of the machine and move to toss it into the dryer.

“Is that mine?” Steve asked, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

Bucky turned and almost dropped the hoodie, wanting to seem like he had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Steve’s hoodie was in his laundry. Bucky was just standing there, stiller than a ghost, utterly mortified that Steve had caught him pretty much stealing like this. It wasn’t like Steve had given him the hoodie; this was an actual, legitimate theft, really. Bucky was lucky Steve wasn’t calling the cops right then and there.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky’s voice was legitimately squeaking, and it was killing him silently. “That was stealing. That’s bad. I’m so sorry. You can have it back, of course. I-I can dry it, though, ‘cause you probably don’t want a soaking wet hoodie. . . .”

But Steve just sighed, took the hoodie from Bucky, and tossed it into the dryer. “Keep it, Buck. It’s yours.”

“But-”

“It’s a hoodie, not a diamond necklace. Besides, I gave it to you.”

“With the expectation of getting it back, and I haven’t given it back, so it’s theft.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “It’s just a hoodie.”

“Your hoodie. I’m sor-”

Bucky was cut off by Steve coming over and taking Bucky’s face in his hands. “I’m gonna kiss you now, Buck, because you’re being an idiot, okay?”

Bucky probably actually looked like an idiot with the way he was nodding so enthusiastically, but Steve was pressing a firm, closed kiss to Bucky’s lips before Bucky had the chance to feel any semblance of shame.

Steve pulled back and moved the rest of Bucky’s clothes to the dryer while Bucky stood there, white-knuckling the Jedi robe closed, all stupid and placid, his eyes locked on Steve’s backside as he leaned over the edge of the dryer to grab the last few remaining socks. Steve closed the door to the dryer, turned the dial to something Bucky couldn’t make himself notice, and walked back to Bucky.

“Let’s just finish the movie, okay?”

Steve put an arm firmly around Bucky’s waist and pulled him back to the couch. This time, Bucky was nearly on top of Steve, his own head leaned back against Steve’s shoulder, one of Steve’s arms around his waist and the other down his thigh, the hand curled under the back of Bucky’s knee.

Bucky was vulnerable like this; if Steve wanted, he could probably toss Bucky off of him or break a bone or something, but Bucky didn’t mind. He felt warm and content and pleasant. He let himself relax a little, putting his hands over Steve’s and rubbing the knuckles gently.

Right as the streams were about to be crossed in the movie, Bucky heard the buzz of the dryer. Finally, he could get out of this godforsaken Jedi robe and into human clothes.

“Be right back,” Bucky said, beginning to clamber off of the couch (and Steve).

“But we’re at the best part!” Steve complained, pulling Bucky back onto him and kissing the back of Bucky’s neck.

“Then pause it.” Bucky was giggling, his apprehension from before having melted into Steve’s tight yet gentle grip, but he still really, really wanted to be in some actual fucking clothes.

“You’ll be quick, right?” Steve asked plaintively.

Bucky giggled again. “Promise.”

He ran to the laundry room, shutting the door behind him, and threw on the first pair of pants he could find, a pair of plain gray athletic shorts. Finding a shirt proved more difficult; it looked like they’d all gotten stuffed in a back corner of the dryer, but he eventually found a blue-gray sweatshirt from Atlantic City. It was chintzy, but it was soft and would give some much-needed coverage of his shoulder.

He thought he heard the door creaking open as he yanked the shirt over his head, but he must have been paranoid because he heard Steve screaming, “You’re not being quick!” all the way in the living room right after.

“Coming,” Bucky called, running back and curling himself up against Steve’s side again.

Steve’s hand found Bucky’s hair and stroked through it absently as the movie finished. Bucky leaned into the gentle touch, eventually to the point that he kissed the inside of Steve’s wrist when it brushed Bucky’s ear, which made Bucky shiver.

Steve’s hand stilled momentarily, still tangled in Bucky’s hair, before shifting so the fingertips were grazing against Bucky’s jaw instead. Bucky heard a gross, embarrassed squeak come out of him as Steve thumbed the cleft in his chin.

Bucky’s hands flew up to cover his mouth, and he glanced nervously at Steve. Steve was looking down at him, and there was something different in his eyes that Bucky couldn’t quite read. It was like he was hurt, but excited, too, which didn’t make sense because those emotions were pretty much polar opposites. Whatever it was, it made Bucky uncomfortable, and he let his hands down from his mouth and shifted a little so he didn’t have to look upside-down to look at Steve.

“What’s up?” Bucky asked, suddenly painfully conscious of the weight of Steve’s hand on his neck.

Steve shook his head. “Nothing. I just-” Steve paused, running his free hand through his hair. “Nothing,” he repeated.

“Steve?” Bucky pressed.

Steve shook his head, breaking eye contact with Bucky and staring down at his own lap. “Never mind.”

Bucky sat up, not missing the way Steve kept his hands on Bucky’s hips until there was enough distance between them that Steve would have to be bent in half to keep the contact. Even so, Bucky took Steve’s hands and held them.

“What?” Bucky pressed.

Steve looked back up at Bucky now. Steve’s eyes had lost that hurt quality, and instead they just matched the shy smile adorning his lips. “I’m just lucky that I get to hang out with someone as precious as you,” Steve explained, shrugging, like it was a simple fact of life, and not the best, yet cheesiest, compliment Bucky had ever received.

It was like the moment just before a lightning strike; so, so painfully sudden. Bucky felt his hair practically stand on end as the nerve endings in his brain finally clicked into place.

Bucky tried to chalk it up to Steve’s nerves, or Steve’s words, or even the way Steve was squeezing Bucky’s hands in a vice grip. Regardless, Bucky’s words tumbled out of his mouth practically of their own volition: “Steve, I’m ready. Like, ready-ready. Can we, um- can I?” Bucky trailed off, unsure of how to beg Steve to let Bucky give him a handjob without coming off as wanton as he felt.

But Steve just smirked knowingly and nodded. “As long as I get to reciprocate, you can do whatever you want, baby.”

It’s not that Bucky felt calm about this. But, as leaned forward and cupped Steve with his right hand, he felt a resolve. He was going to make Steve feel good, just like Steve deserved.

His wants and needs were equal to Steve, and right now he wanted to make Steve feel good. This was okay. This was what Bucky wanted, what he needed.

Steve was already half-hard under Bucky’s palm, which was simultaneously reassuring, since it meant that Steve was at least a little bit attracted to Bucky, and scary, since it made Bucky shiver a little bit, and it threatened the facade he had in his mind that he was in total control of the situation.

Bucky began to apply just the smallest bit of pressure with his palm; he didn’t want the material of Steve’s boxers to chafe him or bother him in any way, but Bucky wasn’t quite ready to get Steve out of his pants just yet.

“Bucky? Will you kiss me?” Steve asked. His voice was hitching just a little bit, and it made goosebumps traverse the length of Bucky’s spine.

Bucky nodded hurriedly, rushing to take off his glasses and set them on the coffee table so they wouldn’t knock against Steve’s face and be cold and unpleasant. He kept his hand pressed to Steve’s crotch as he leaned in and over Steve, using his free hand to clutch Steve’s jaw almost desperately.

Steve responded in kind, hands going to Bucky’s hair and scratching against Bucky’s scalp gently, never tugging, just feeling and holding. Bucky involuntarily tightened his squeeze when Steve brushed at the nape of his neck, and it sent Steve groaning into the crook of Bucky’s neck.

Steve was so hot under Bucky, feverish and blushing. Bucky thought he might overheat and die, just from this, just from holding Steve through two layers of clothing and feeling Steve kissing and nipping heatedly at his neck.

Steve pulled back and moved his hands to mirror Bucky’s left one, just holding Bucky’s face and stroking his thumbs over Bucky’s cheekbones. They were making searing eye contact, Steve’s pupils huge and round and almost wanton. It was enough to send even the most stable person into a fit, but Bucky held steady, still cupping Steve lightly in his right hand.

“Two things?” Steve breathed out, his voice shaking just a little bit.

It was driving Bucky crazy; Steve Rogers’s voice was shaking because of Bucky’s hand, which wasn’t even really doing anything other than holding Steve. Bucky’s throat felt dry, and he tried to swallow, but nothing happened except for a dull ache spreading through his larynx.

“First,” Steve panted, “I wanna touch your ass, like, badly. I won’t do anything else, just touch, but, please?”

Bucky had Steve begging to touch him. If Bucky wasn’t already hard, that would’ve done the trick just fine. Bucky nodded, his head bobbing like it was on springs, he was so excited. Steve’s hands flew to Bucky’s ass, just cupping, like Steve’d promised, but it was still a lot.

Bucky swallowed again, his throat cooperating this time. Steve’s hands, always warm and huge and gentle, felt just the same on his ass, and it was making Bucky legitimately ache everywhere from his chest to his groin to his head.

“Second, more, please. I n- I want more, please.”

Bucky must have just died. Steve was stuttering and arching into Bucky’s grip, loose as it was, and literally begging for more. Bucky’s heart was pounding. He wanted to grab a picture of how Steve looked right now, all flushed and just a little sweaty and so, so eager. It was just headrush after headrush.

When Bucky pushed himself off of Steve, it actually hurt Bucky. Felt like an icicle jabbed between his ribs and twisted artfully until he was bleeding all over the carpet. Felt like an electric shock was added when Steve’s eyes followed him, looking just as desperate and pained as Bucky felt.

“Need lube,” Bucky muttered by way of explanation.

Steve groaned and nodded, tossing his head back into the pillows and pushing his face into his bicep. It was needlessly dramatic, but it stoked the fire burning in Bucky’s bones as he ran into the bedroom and started digging through his underwear drawer for his bottle of lube.

Bucky ran his hand through the neatly folded underwear, destroying the piles and making a mess. It only got worse when Steve started calling Bucky’s name, Bucky resorting to taking out fistfuls of multicolored boxers and tossing them on the floor around him.

“Just a sec, sweetheart,” Bucky called back.

Steve groaned again, shamelessly melodramatic, and Bucky smirked through his annoyance at himself. Why the hell did he ever feel shame about owning a bottle of lube and feel the need to hide it behind a bunch of pairs of hole-covered boxers?! It was making it so painfully slow-going to find the lube that when Bucky emerged, triumphant, with the half-empty tube, Steve’d already started touching himself.

It was a sight.

Steve’s shirt was rucked up to his armpits, his pecs and abs and sides all exposed and peachy with a gentle blush. His eyes were half closed and his bangs were flattened to his forehead with sweat. His lips were bright red and shiny with spit from how he was worrying at them. With one arm, he was holding the waistband of his joggers down, and with the other, his fist was flying over his cock as he moaned and sighed softly.

Bucky was so shocked and suddenly lightheaded that the bottle of lube tumbled to the floor, landing squarely on his toe.

Bucky hissed in pain, but he couldn’t bring himself to move and pick it up; that would be entirely too much effort.

Steve was every wet dream Bucky had ever had, personified. Shameless and sweet-looking, inviting and sexy and oh-so-overwhelming. Steve’s dick itself. . . well, it necessitated a fucking thesaurus of words for “beautiful.”

It was just a few centimeters above average, enough that it wasn’t dwarfed by Steve’s huge frame, but not so much that it was terrifying to Bucky. The tip was flushed pink, almost red, and pre-come was drooling down it. The base was lined by trimmed, dark hairs that managed to look simultaneously manly and neat.

Bucky actually whimpered as he went to pick up the bottle of lube and walk back to Steve. Thankfully, Steve didn’t seem to notice, occupied as he was.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, looking up at him, hand barely slowing.

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice was a croak, like a dying toad. It was hard to care, though, with the way Steve was looking at him, open and begging.

“Touch me, please,” Steve whispered.

Bucky nodded and climbed back on top of Steve, this time taking a moment to sit back on his heels and drizzle lube over his palm.

He wasn’t sure where his sudden rush of confidence was coming from, but he was willing to put money on the fact that it was Steve begging for him that was causing it.

“I was gone for what, thirty seconds, and you devolve into this? And dry, too?” Bucky teased warmly as he threaded his fingers through Steve’s hair and kissed him a few times, on the lips and chin and cheeks. Anywhere his lips could get, really. Steve was that overwhelming and all-encompassing.

“Too long,” Steve mumbled, leaning into the kisses. “Couldn’t wait. Used spit.”

Bucky smiled gently at how Steve seemed incapable of stringing more than two-word half-sentences together.

“Sorry for thinking you deserved better lube than just spit.” Bucky gently guided his hand toward Steve’s cock, stopping a bare inch short of it. He could feel the heat radiating off of it, and it made Bucky’s insides churn like they were in some kind of high-tech food processor.

“You should be.” Steve’s voice was breathless and his hand was squeezing tighter around the head of his cock, drawing little gasps from his lips.

“Asshole,” Bucky mumbled, watching Steve’s fist slow over his cock.

“Not right now, please. Just my dick,” Steve mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed.

Bucky rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to flick Steve with the hand that wasn’t covered in lube. “You suck.”

“I will, but, seriously, not right now.”

“What am I gonna do with you?” Bucky teased. His hand ached to go and wrap over Steve, but Steve hadn’t asked him to now that it was really about to happen, and Bucky didn’t want to ask and ruin whatever rhythm Steve had going.

“Touch me?” Steve suggested, somehow managing to sound innocent despite the fact that he was clutching himself.

“You sure?” Bucky asked, unwilling to do anything Steve didn’t enthusiastically want. It was a little of his own nerves, and a little of just wanting to make sure that Steve was happy, but either way, he couldn’t help his hesitation.

“Bucky, if you don’t fucking touch me, I’m going to scream. Please,” Steve said firmly, locking eyes with Bucky.

Bucky finally closed the gap and wrapped his fingers around the root of Steve’s cock, watching Steve’s own hand flop down next to his own hip, as if grateful that it was being given a rest.

Slowly, carefully, like he would damage Steve if we went even a lick faster, Bucky began to rub up and down Steve’s cock. Bucky kept his grip relatively tight, but the pace painfully slow, even for him. He just didn’t want to hurt Steve by going too fast and chafing him or something.

“Please, Bucky,” Steve panted. His bare chest was rising and falling rapidly, and it was making Bucky stir in his shorts. “Just a little faster.”

Bucky rushed to comply; he’d do anything Steve asked right now. Steve’s face was screwing up like he’d just eaten twenty lemons, and his hands were scrabbling along Bucky’s back, searching for purchase until they settled on Bucky’s ass, making Bucky jump slightly.

“This -- mm -- this okay?” Steve asked, forcing his eyes open to look at Bucky.

Bucky nodded. “Just surprised me,” he grunted out.

Bucky shifted the angle of his wrist slightly, letting himself rub his thumb across Steve’s slit at the end of every stroke.

“Oh, Christ, Buck,” Steve stuttered. “Just like that, okay? God, feels so good. Can’t -- oh -- wait to get my hands on you, baby.”

Bucky had never been one for dirty talk, but watching Steve come apart and run his mouth was messing Bucky up. He was tenting his shorts and sweating, and his wrist was aching awfully due to how he was bent over Steve, but it didn’t even matter because Steve was feeling good and feeling happy and was leaning into every single one of Bucky’s ministrations. It didn’t matter that Bucky was woefully out of practice, it didn’t matter that Bucky was constantly having to remind himself not to overthink things, it didn’t even matter that Steve’s nails were now digging into Bucky’s backside rather painfully. It only mattered that Steve was happy.

“Your hands should be -- oh, fuck -- fucking insured, sweetheart. They’re incredible, you’re incredible.”

Bucky fought back a giggle at how many faces Steve was making, from grimaces to gasps to what looked like a sob. Steve was splayed out, taut and hot and nearly shaking, because of Bucky. If that didn’t give a man a complex, nothing would.

“Perfect, honey, just like that. It’s -- Christ, baby, yes -- like you’re a fucking angel, an absolute fucking angel. Nirvana, honey, just -- mm -- Nirvana.”

Bucky giggled, almost embarrassed by Steve’s praise, and sped his hand up just a little bit. Steve seemed to like this, leaning into it and fucking mewling. Encouraged, Bucky pressed a little harder and kept going, letting Steve’s mouth run and feeling his own blood run hot until Steve’s hands on Bucky’s ass started insistently tugging Bucky closer to Steve.

“Kiss me, Bucky, please. I’m close, I wanna kiss you, please,” Steve was begging.

“Always,” Bucky grunted, ducking down and pressing his lips, hard, to Steve’s. The angle was still hell on his wrist and hand, but he didn’t stop moving for a second, not until Steve was nipping at Bucky’s jaw and whimpering Bucky’s name and whining and Bucky’s hand was covered in warmth.

Bucky kissed Steve’s jaw one more time before pulling back and holding his jizz-covered hand in front of him so he wouldn’t get his furniture all come-stained.

Steve was laying back, his eyes screwed closed and a little bit of come still dribbling out of him. His hands had moved off of Bucky’s ass at some point while Bucky was kissing him, and now they were fisted by his sides, as tense and strung out as the rest of him.

“Good?” Bucky asked breathlessly.

Steve nodded mutely.

“I’m gonna go wipe off my hand, Steve. I’ll be right back.” Bucky went to go get up and wash his hands, but Steve’s arms shot out and wrapped around Bucky’s waist.

“Stay,” Steve said plaintively.

“I gotta get the come off, baby,” Bucky said, the pet name falling from his lips so easily that it was surprising.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry,” Steve panted as he pulled back, ripped off his shirt, and wiped off Bucky’s hand and his own stomach before tossing his shirt onto the floor below them.

Bucky just sat there for a moment, allowing himself to become utterly dumbstruck by what had just transpired. He’d made Steve Rogers come all over his hand! The evidence was right there on the shirt, barely a foot away. It was maybe the first time since being discharged that Bucky wanted to be covered in anything except soap or soft blankets.

“Bucky?” Steve asked.

Bucky’s attention snapped back to the situation at hand; Steve was still shirtless and panting in front of Bucky, Steve’s skin slowly fading from its blush. He’d tucked himself back away inside his joggers, and now he was looking down Bucky’s torso hungrily.

It made Bucky release an involuntary whimper from deep in his throat, and Steve raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. How Steve went from a post-orgasmic glow to something downright conniving in the barest of seconds was beyond Bucky. All Bucky was conscious of now was that Steve was reversing their positions from earlier, Steve leaning over Bucky and in between Bucky’s legs, his lips mere inches from Bucky’s.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve asked, his breath fanning out over Bucky’s neck.

Bucky nodded, and Steve ducked down and crushed his lips to Bucky’s bruisingly hard, in sharp contrast to the soft way his hands were rubbing up and down Bucky’s sides.

This was okay; they’d done this a million times before. Of course, Steve hadn’t been shirtless a million times before, but that was merely a bonus. It was practically routine at this point.

That is, until Steve’s fingertips notched in Bucky’s waistband. “Can I touch you, baby?” Steve asked, using the hand not caught in Bucky’s waistband to rub over his cheek.

“Only i-in the pants, please,” Bucky said, trying desperately to communicate through the thick fog of Steve that was trapping his mind. “I don’t want anything else, yet.”

It wasn’t like he was embarrassed of his dick. It was just that Steve had probably seen a million and a half dicks in his day, and Bucky didn’t even want to know how he measured up. He was about average in length, and a little thicker than average, but Steve had probably fucked porn stars and would laugh at Bucky or pity him or something.

He’d tried to clean down there, too, but as soon as he trimmed anything, all the biological reasons for people having pubic hair flashed through his mind anxiously, so he’d left it only a tiny bit shorter than what he’d started with, which wasn’t appealing at all. Keeping it out of sight was simply the best option for both parties.

Steve nodded, though, undeterred. “That’s more than okay, baby. We might get some lube on your boxers, though. That okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky groaned, caught between wanting Steve to just shove his hand down there, already, and just taking a cold shower so he wouldn’t have to bother Steve.

But Steve’s and Bucky’s wants were equal, and Steve at least seemed to want to give Bucky a handjob.

Steve sat back and picked up the bottle of lube from where Bucky had dropped it on the couch and poured out a generous amount into his hand. It was suddenly all too real, and Bucky covered his face with his hands, both to hide his vision from Steve’s expression when it would inevitably read as disappointed, and to avoid exposing Steve to the embarrassing faces he was definitely going to make once Steve got his hand on him.

“None of that, honey. Bucky, please look at me,” Steve said, the hand that wasn’t covered in lube squeezing Bucky’s knee.

Bucky separated his fingers so he could make eye contact with Steve, but didn’t move his hands.

“Bucky, baby, relax. I’m gonna take care of you, okay?” Steve’s voice was as soft and warm as a voice could get without being condescending.

Bucky let himself feel reassured by Steve and reluctantly let his hands fall to his sides and watched Steve reach inside his pants. He jerked away at the brush of Steve’s hand against his pubic bone, and Steve shushed him patiently.

“Buck, breathe in for ten, hold for three, out for ten, okay?”

Bucky tried to follow suit, but it was so hard. Steve’s hand was literally in his pants! He was freaking out and still so, so hard that it was practically driving him up a wall.

“That’s good, Buck,” Steve said, ducking down to kiss Bucky’s cheek. “How’re you feeling, honey?”

Bucky tried to come up with words to describe the stew of anxiety and excitement warring within him, but all he could come up with was, “Ready.”

Luckily, Steve nodded and smiled at him, like Bucky’d given the right answer. “I’m gonna touch you now, sweetheart. Keep breathing. You can stop whenever you want, or we can take a break and come back to it. Whatever you want, honey.”

Bucky smiled absently at the litany of pet names before gasping as Steve’s hand wrapped around the root of his cock. It was warm and slightly rough, and absolutely dripping with lube. It was a million times better than his own hand, than any other hand Bucky had ever had touch him like this. His breath hitched, and his hands flew up to hide his face, but he stopped when he noticed Steve was looking expectantly at him.

“That’s it, Buck. Doing great. I’m gonna move now.”

Steve began to drag his hand up to the head and back down, so painfully slowly that it almost hurt more than it felt good.

“Tell me what you need, baby,” Steve asked, not breaking eye contact for a moment.

“F-faster,” Bucky whimpered. He blushed at how fucked his voice sounded; high-pitched and breathy and almost panicked.

Steve complied easily, and Bucky’s breath caught as pleasure snaked up his spine.

“What else do you need?” Steve’s wrist twisted as he approached the head, allowing his thumb to rub over the frenulum, and that made Bucky choke on his tongue.

“That. I need that,” Bucky croaked.

“Perfect, honey, you’re perfect. Gorgeous like this. What else? Tell me what you need,” Steve rambled, going just the slightest bit faster.

“Kiss me?” Bucky asked. He felt shy and nervous, like even though Steve’s hand was wrapped around Bucky’s cock, Steve was going to balk at the idea of kissing Bucky.

“That’s a great idea, baby. You’re so smart. Doing so good, telling me what you need. Tell me what feels good, honey.” Steve bent down over Bucky and pressed his lips to Bucky’s, soft and open-mouthed, just letting Bucky have a space in which to whimper more than anything. He was so far gone he couldn’t even make himself feel embarrassed about it.

Steve pulled back after a moment and pressed kisses over Bucky’s jaw. “Such pretty sounds, honey. Tell me what feels good. I wanna do it more; wanna make it feel even better.”

“M-more pressure at the head, please,” Bucky whispered. He felt like he was floating. It’d barely been a minute or two since Steve had started moving his hand, but Bucky already felt heat coiling in the pit of his stomach, hot and ready to burst.

All it took was Steve squeezing the frenulum and Bucky was painting the inside of his boxers white and crying out hoarsely, pushing his face into Steve’s shoulder.

“Oh, honey,” Steve mumbled. “You’re precious. Just relax. You’re amazing. You feel good?”

Bucky nodded helplessly.

“Good, sweetie, that’s great. Wanna go get cleaned up?”

Bucky nodded again, and Steve pulled back, releasing his come-covered hand from Bucky’s pants. Bucky shivered at the loss, and Steve smiled knowingly.

“I’ll be right here when you’re done, baby. You’re okay.”

Bucky didn’t know when he became mute, but he was, so he just nodded for the umpteenth time and made his way to his bedroom on trembling legs.

He couldn’t even fathom what had just happened as he washed himself off with a warm washcloth and pulled on a clean pair of boxers, leaving the athletic shorts on the floor of his bedroom. His pulse was thrumming and he felt like he was flying as he went back to the couch and practically dove into Steve’s arms.

“You still want to get ice cream?” Steve asked, his voice a low rumble against Bucky’s temple.

Bucky shook his head as much as he could without moving it from Steve’s chest.

“Just wanna cuddle, honey?” Steve asked, stroking Bucky’s hair. Bucky was too relaxed to even bother to wonder whether or not Steve had washed his hands since getting them covered in Bucky’s come.

By way of answer, Bucky just tugged Steve’s arms tighter around himself and leaned into Steve’s chest, letting himself come down from the heady place where he currently resided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear: Bucky's self-deprecating thoughts in this chapter are unhealthy. Even though he is in therapy, that's not an immediate panacea. But what's important is that his thought patterns are becoming more healthy and stable, and that he's trying to be healthy and stable.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick explainer: The High Holidays are big celebrations around the Jewish new year. The two biggest are Rosh Hashanah, which is the new year itself, and Yom Kippur, where people repent for their sins from the past year by fasting (no food, no water) for twenty-four hours. Normally, people go to services and then have a big meal in the evening to celebrate/break the fast

Bucky knew it was coming, but it didn’t make it suck any less.

He tucked his feet up under him and nodded, pressing the phone harder to his ear. “That’s okay, Mom,” he said into the phone. “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving anyway, right?”

“Aw, Bucky,” his mom sighed. “You’re really upset about this, huh?”

Bucky shrugged before remembering she couldn’t see him. “It’s no big deal,” Bucky promised, tucking his hair behind his ear. “There’s a million synagogues out here. I’m sure at least one will welcome guests.”

Bucky was saying this as much to reassure his mom as to reassure himself. The High Holidays were times to be with family; it was the whole point of the thing, but his family was going to be back in New York, going to services and having meals and hanging out at home without him. He’d tried to get his parents to come out for at least Yom Kippur, but his dad’s job wouldn’t let them get away for even a weekend. His sister hadn’t even bothered to check her schedule, just snorted and said that she’d get back to Bucky if her robotics lab ever burned down, as that was the only way she’d ever be able to get away for a week.

It wasn’t just that Bucky didn’t want to be alone during the High Holidays; he was homesick. LA was good, better than good what with how fun working on a real movie was and how incredible Steve was, but it wasn’t home. He missed the bodega around the corner and living three subway stops from his parents and even his shitty landlord. He’d been farther from home while he was serving, obviously, but, nevertheless, it sucked to have not been home for nearly three months now.

“Oh, honey,” Bucky’s mom sighed. “You know I miss you, but your father just can’t leave right now, and you know I hate leaving him alone with his heart and all.”

Bucky sighed again. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Mom. I get it, it just . . . sucks.”

“Sweetheart, if I could do anything, I would.” Her voice sounded pained and sad, and Bucky hated that he’d made her feel like that. He hadn’t been meaning to guilt trip her; he’d just honestly been really upset.

“I know.” Bucky looked over to where Steve was standing in his kitchen, looking at Bucky concernedly over his own cup of tea. Bucky flashed him a weak smile and went back to his phone call. “Thanksgiving, though. It’s only a few months away, right?”

“Yes, sweetie. I’m gonna look into synagogues over there, okay?”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I still don’t get why you can’t just fly home, instead. I wish you could get away for a week,” she sighed.

“Me, too. But I barely have weekends off; I can’t ask for that much time off. It wouldn’t be fair, especially considering how much they’re paying me.” Bucky said this part hushed, so Steve wouldn’t hear. He didn’t want Steve to think that Bucky only liked him because of his (ample) cash flow (they’d never discussed money, but it was hard not to see how affluent Steve was based off of his car and house and clothes), nor did he want Steve to know how truly broke he was. He could only afford his nice apartment here since Pepper, or, more likely, the studio, was paying for it.

“How does that follow union rules?!” his mom yelled at no one.

Bucky rolled his eyes and smiled sadly; he’d missed her habit of screaming about social justice issues at the most inappropriate of times. “I’m not in a union. And I’m leaving before post-production, which I really shouldn’t be doing, anyway, so I can get back to Columbia after my sabbatical. They’re being plenty fair.”

“I know, honey. I just miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Bucky sighed.

Steve was looking over at Bucky, concern etching his features. Bucky smiled again at him to try to reassure him that everything was okay, and the concern faded, but he was still frowning a little.

“Oh, honey. I should go and make dinner. Let you get back to living it up in Hollywood,” Bucky’s mom said tiredly.

Bucky rolled his eyes and snorted out a laugh, choosing to ignore his mother’s tone. “I’m not living it up by any means, Mom. I love you. Tell Dad I said hi.”

“I will, Bucky. I love you forever!”

“Love you. Bye.” Bucky clicked “End Call” and looked at Steve, who was smiling sadly at him.

“Who knew you were a mama’s boy?” Steve teased lightly, grabbing Bucky’s mug of tea and carrying it over to the coffee table before flopping down on the couch next to Bucky.

Bucky rolled his eyes and scooted closer to Steve so Steve could put his arm around him, careful to angle himself in such a way that his shoulder was out of Steve’s reach. It wasn’t hurting bad, just a gentle ache, but Bucky didn’t want to tempt fate. Luckily, Steve slid an arm around Bucky’s waist instead of his shoulders.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked as he picked up the remote and found Netflix, trying to find something for them to watch until Sam and Natasha and Clint came over to Steve’s house for drinks.

Bucky had been a little apprehensive about hanging out with Steve’s friends, especially since he and Steve hadn’t truly defined whether or not they were a couple, but Steve had reassured him it was just drinks and maybe a board game or two; no big deal. Bucky had wanted to ask whether or not Steve was going to act like they were a couple earlier, but the one time he’d gotten the balls to bring it up, Steve had distracted by kissing him and eventually sticking a hand down his pants.

He wanted to ask now, but Steve was so warm and nice against Bucky, and Bucky didn’t want to cause Steve to overthink and then balk and kick Bucky out. Or, worse, Bucky might make it seem like he would rather be anywhere than with Steve’s friends and unintentionally force Steve to uninvite his friends; that wouldn’t be at all fair to Steve.

So he kept quiet and decided he’d just follow Steve’s lead once Steve’s friends came over.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, looking over at Bucky.

Bucky blushed once he realized he’d accidentally ignored Steve’s question. “I wanted my family to come out here for Rosh Hashanah or something, but they can’t. I really miss them.” Bucky admitted quietly.

“Why can’t they come?” Steve asked, adjusting them so Bucky’s head was leaning on Steve’s chest.

“Work, mostly. I also think they expect me to come home myself, but I just can’t with my schedule right now.”

Steve didn’t say anything, just nodded patiently; he knew firsthand just how hectic filming was.

Bucky sighed softly, embarrassed that he was just unloading his stupid problems on Steve. It wasn’t like Steve could fix them, or that he would even care. But Bucky was selfish, and upset, and he couldn’t help himself from venting, especially when Steve was being all warm and patient and lovely. “It’s not that it’s such a big deal. I just don’t wanna be alone for the High Holidays, you know. It’ll be lonely. And shitty, especially on Yom Kippur.”

“Why?” Steve asked, the arm slung around Bucky’s waist tightening just a little bit.

“Well, first, I’d miss my mom’s cooking on Rosh Hashanah,” Bucky complained, giggling a little bit despite himself about how privileged he sounded. “And, second, on Yom Kippur, breaking the fast alone sucks. And plenty of synagogues have break-fasts open to the public, but I wouldn’t know anyone there, and it’d be weird.”

Steve just kept looking at Bucky, like he was reading Bucky’s mind and knew that Bucky was holding an important piece of why he was upset back.

“Plus, I’m just a little homesick,” he finally muttered, face hot with embarrassment at how needy he was being.

Steve hummed low in his throat and hugged Bucky, tight. “I felt that when I first moved out here, too. Wanna talk about it?”

Bucky nodded, still being embraced by Steve. “I miss public transportation. I don’t like how everyone drives here,” Bucky mumbled.

Steve laughed, and Bucky felt it reverberate up from Steve’s chest. It felt all warm and buzzy, and it made Bucky relax a little.

“Me neither,” Steve said. “I hate how the city sprawls out.”

Bucky nodded. Steve was making no moves to end their hug, and Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way. “The skyline’s ugly. I miss the Empire State Building.”

“Really?” Steve’s voice had a smile in it, and it made Bucky feel all warm inside. “You hate the skyline? ‘Cause my view right now’s pretty nice.”

Bucky looked up, confused, since the windows were to their backs, so Steve couldn’t be looking out them. Steve was staring straight down at Bucky, though, and the realization that Steve had just been complimenting him made Bucky blush all over again and shove his face back in Steve’s face where his embarrassment was relatively hidden. 

“Where in New York are you from?” Steve asked, clearly trying to gently distract Bucky from being embarrassed, and kissing the top of Bucky’s head.

“Well, I grew up in Brooklyn, but now I live in Morningside Heights, since it’s so close to campus.” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s chest.

“No shit! I’m from Brooklyn, too,” Steve said, kissing the top of Bucky’s head again.

Bucky was glad he was buried in Steve’s chest since he couldn’t help the shame that radiated out at that fact that he knew that, had stalked Steve’s Wikipedia page enough to know. It was beyond creepy, beyond not okay, and Steve couldn’t know a single word of it. It was so one-sided, and almost predatory on Bucky’s part; he knew so much about Steve that all the get-to-know-you stuff they’d done had been three-quarters review for Bucky, whereas he’d barely said a word about himself to Steve, other than the fact that Bucky was born and bred in New York, loved history, trivia, and Star Wars. Steve didn’t even know that Bucky was from Brooklyn, for chrissake, much less about his time serving or his anxiety or anything else remotely significant.

So Bucky just said, “Oh?” as disinterestedly as he could, and tried to ignore the coil of shame biting at his internal organs.

“Yeah. I wonder if we ever saw each other at the supermarket or something.” Steve had pulled back from kissing Bucky’s head and was now just stroking Bucky’s hair. Bucky didn’t even make a semblance of moving away; he was perfectly content to hate himself from the comfort of Steve’s chest.

Bucky made a noncommittal noise and resumed his shame spiral, too caught up to think about tugging the hair band on his wrist.

He had completely invaded Steve’s privacy, his life, and, meanwhile, Bucky was probably nothing more than a nuisance to him.

“You okay, baby?” Steve asked, concern leaching into his tone.

“Just upset about my parents, I think,” Bucky mumbled.

Steve rubbed the back of Bucky’s neck a little harder. “Drink your tea. It’ll make you feel better.”

Bucky had been dismissed, clearly, so he pulled back and grabbed his tea and hid his face in that instead, trying not to let himself show how much he liked all the pet names and how they were making him feel better about not being completely forthright with Steve.

“Better?” Steve asked when Bucky pulled back from his mug.

Bucky nodded. He didn’t really have much to say that wouldn’t involve him admitting the fact that he was creepy.

It’s not that he felt simply embarrassed about being a Steve Rogers fan. He felt mortified. Like, if-Steve-ever-found-out-he’d-move-to-a-hovel-and-never-come-out levels of mortified. He didn’t deserve Steve’s soft hugs and warm tea. He deserved to go back to New York and startle Eustace and scare his neighbors with the volume of his sobs.

“So, if your family isn’t in town, what’ll you do for the holidays?” Steve asked, resting his hand on Bucky’s knee.

Bucky shrugged. “Go to services somewhere and then order a pizza, I guess.”

“When are the holidays?”

“Few weeks.” Bucky downed more of his tea, not wanting to hear Steve telling him to just buy a fucking plane ticket and let Pepper deal with the consequences.

Steve was pulling out his phone, and Bucky glanced up at him, confused.

“Well, according to Chabad.org, Rosh Hashanah’s on a Wednesday, but Yom Kippur’s on a Saturday, so I’ll have to work on Rosh Hashanah, but you can come over here for Yom Kippur, if you want. I’ll cook for you so you don’t have to order a pizza or something.”

Bucky looked up, incredulous. He’d expected the cold blow of Steve demanding that Bucky man up and get a life, for once. But this, the warm feeling that came with Steve promising to take care of Bucky, was entirely unexpected.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Bucky said quickly, setting his tea down. “I’ll be fasting, so I’ll be a total bitch, and I’ll be too tired to be any fun and I’ll mostly just want to sleep. I can’t -- I don’t want to bother you.”

Steve shook his head. “Bucky, you just made a list of reasons why you should come over.”

Bucky shook his head adamantly.

“Please? For my own peace of mind? I’ll pick you up after services if you text me where you’re going.”

Bucky set his tea aside. “Steve, I don’t want to be a bother. I’m fine at home.”

“Nope,” Steve replied firmly. “You may be fine, but I’m not.”

Bucky picked up his legs and curled into a ball. He didn’t want to bother Steve -- couldn’t bother him with something like this. Especially when he’d been lying by omission for Steve for months. Especially-especially when he’d be feeling too exhausted to be remotely entertaining or interesting or fun. Steve would get annoyed by him and then Bucky would never get Steve’s hand around him again, or hear Steve panting with pleasure, or even just be cuddled by the man. It was unthinkable to say yes, to ruin something so good over something so simple like this.

But Steve was looking at Bucky so earnestly, like he was begging Bucky to say yes.

Bucky had lasted literal years with only fantasies of Steve Rogers. And, while the real thing was infinitely better than the fantasy, Bucky could probably survive with them again after Steve inevitably rejected him.

Steve and Bucky’s wants were equal, and Steve wanted to take care of Bucky; Bucky had to say yes.

“Okay,” Bucky mumbled. “What’re you gonna cook?”

Steve laughed and scooted closer to Bucky, closing the distance Bucky had created, and put his arms tightly around the ball Bucky was curled into, kissing Bucky’s temple in a thinly veiled attempt to get Bucky to relax.

“Whatever you want. Now, pick a movie or something, so you don’t get bored of me.”

Bucky laughed at how ludicrous that comment was; like he could ever get bored of Steve. “You pick. Something peaceful, please,” Bucky whispered, undoing his ball so he could wrap his arms around Steve’s torso.

“I’ve got just the thing, Buck,” Steve whispered, moving one arm off of Bucky’s back to navigate the television remote.

Bucky heard David Attenborough’s voice begin to drone, and he turned his head away from Steve’s chest to watch Planet Earth.

“This good?” Steve asked, rubbing Bucky’s back lightly.

“Perfect,” Bucky replied, relaxing into Steve and letting himself come down from the anxious place he had worked himself into.

Steve was being nice and doting, and Bucky’s spastic, haphazard anxieties about knowing too much about Steve and being a bother were momentarily pushed aside as easily as Steve pushed the stray hairs off of Bucky’s forehead.

***

Forty-five minutes later, Steve and Bucky had (sadly) untangled themselves and were helping Natasha, who was twenty minutes early, set up beer pong on Steve’s dining room table.

“I was a fucking pro at this in college,” Steve boasted as he reached into a cabinet in the adjoining kitchen to grab cheap cups.

“I’m sure,” Natasha said dryly, taking a sip from a beer she’d snagged.

“No, seriously. I won an actual trophy my junior year!” Steve’s voice was muffled since his head was buried in the cabinet, but it was more than loud enough to get close to giving Bucky a headache, despite the fact that Bucky was a good twenty feet away in the dining room, clearing off the runner and vase in the middle of the table, probably placed there by some interior decorator, since Steve was nowhere near extra enough to buy and use a table runner himself.

Bucky was feeling a little better, the tea and Steve’s gentle touch having worked wonders, but still was a little apprehensive, which was why he was busying himself with clearing the table instead of lazing around like Natasha was doing.

“Really?” Natasha said boredly, like she already knew this story, getting up from the chair she was curled up into in the dining room and walking into the kitchen. “What did the trophy look like?”

“A dildo spray-painted gold,” Steve replied matter-of-factly. “What else would it be?”

Bucky choked on his spit and almost dropped the vase. He knew Steve wasn’t exactly a prude, but there was just something wild about the person you’re seeing having a story about a spray-painted dildo.

He hated saying that he was “seeing” Steve, but there wasn’t really another word for it, since their dates hardly counted as such, as they just involved doing something casual together and then making out on of their couches. They weren’t boyfriends, nor would they be for the foreseeable future; Steve seemed happy as a clam leaving their relationship undefined, and Bucky sure as hell wasn’t gonna bring it up.

He didn’t want to know what was almost definitely the truth; that he was just fun for Steve, not anything else. Even though he already knew it, hearing Steve say that out loud would crush Bucky, and make him cry, and he didn’t want to cry in front of Steve. Not ever.

So Bucky just tried to shrug off his lingering anxiety and giggled a little at the dildo-trophy. He set the vase down on a side table and walked into the kitchen after Natasha, not wanting to miss the conversation due to being in the other room.

“I won a keg stand championship in college, but they never gave me a trophy,” Natasha complained, sitting up on the counter and crossing her legs primly.

Bucky laughed lightly. Imagining Natasha at some wild college kegger was completely at odds with her ever-composed smile and cool demeanor.

Despite feeling mostly better, he must have had a look on his face or something, because Steve was suddenly away from the cabinet and winding muscled arms around Bucky’s waist and kissing Bucky’s cheek. Bucky flushed a deep pink. Apparently, Steve wanted at least Natasha to know that they were . . . whatever they were.

He glanced at Natasha, expecting a look of surprise or disgust or . . . something, since Steve was so clearly miles out of Bucky’s league, but she just had a quirked eyebrow and a polite smile. Bucky glanced at Steve for reassurance, but Steve was just smiling at him gently.

“What about you, Bucky? Have any fun college beer awards?” Natasha asked, leaning her chin in her hand and bent forward toward him.

Bucky just shook his head. He hadn’t gone to college until he was discharged at twenty-two, and had spent his undergrad going to class in between physical and mental therapy sessions. His whole left arm had been out of commission at that point, so he’d taken his books around with him in a stupid fucking rolling cart that he could only drag with his right arm. He’d had to get special permission from each and every professor to type assignments, since he was left-handed and handwriting them was out of the question. Every day had been a blur of the bleak subway between the hospital and his therapist’s office and the NYU campus and his parents’ apartment, intersected with anxious waiting until it was time to down another painkiller. It was one of the worst times of his life.

“I didn’t live on campus,” Bucky said simply, not wanting to let himself get too anxious again and turning away from Steve and Natasha to grab himself a bottle of beer from Steve’s fridge.

He snapped the hair tie on his wrist a few times as he popped the cap off and turned back, expecting to be grilled with questions, but Natasha and Steve appeared to have moved on, having a quiet argument about what teams for beer pong should be while they walked to the dining room and began to line the cups up in two triangles with the points meeting in the middle.

Bucky let himself feel just a lick of pride for taking control of the situation and not letting himself spiral into an anxious lump again; he was doing better, and now he was going to be able to just have a normal night with Steve and his friends.

Bucky refocused on the conversation, unsure of how to interject himself into it without being awkward, but, thankfully, the doorbell rang and saved Bucky from having to either stand there pointlessly while reliving his stupidly shitty time in undergrad or jut into the conversation at an awkward point.

Steve went and opened the door with Bucky following, since he’d never been alone with Natasha before and didn’t know what to say and didn’t want to act weird.

Sam and Clint stood on the stoop, each holding two cases of beer.

“Hey, man!” Sam said, walking past Steve and letting himself in.

“Hi,” Clint said, following Sam and fluffing Bucky’s hair as he walked past. Bucky rolled his eyes silently and walked toward the dining room. He’d met Clint three times, once at Steve’s birthday party and twice on set, and that was all it had taken for Clint to treat Bucky like a slightly stupid dog.

Not that Bucky minded too much; after all, he was kind of following Steve back to the dining room around like a lost puppy.

“Beer pong time!” Sam screamed upon seeing the set-up in the dining room, grabbing the beer from the case he carried and beginning to pour it out into the carefully laid out cups.

Bucky was about to step into the room, but Steve caught him by the arm and held him back. Bucky tensed instinctively, since the grip was so close to his shoulder, but Steve’s touch was gentle and Bucky relaxed as Steve withdrew his hand apologetically.

“You doing okay?” Steve asked casually, straightening up and leaning against the doorframe into the dining room. “You looked kinda freaked out there for a minute.”

Bucky wanted to tell Steve everything about his shoulder, but held back. This wasn’t the time nor the place. Besides, Bucky wasn’t ready for this whole thing with Steve to end, for him to inevitably get rejected by his dream man for being so physically unappealing and so mentally fucked up.

So Bucky shrugged and said, “I’m fine.”

“I messed up. I just assumed you’d be okay with Nat and everyone knowing we’re dating, ‘cause they’re my friends and all, but I should’ve asked.” Steve leaned over and took Bucky’s hand in his.

Bucky shrugged again, slightly relieved that Steve was pinning Bucky’s weirdness to being freaked out about how public Steve was being, not with anything deeper. “It’s okay,” Bucky said honestly, squeezing Steve’s hand. “Just surprised me, is all.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Bucky didn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes darted down to Bucky’s lips before looking up again.

“Let’s go. I wanna see if you can retain your title as Beer Pong King,” Bucky teased, breaking the sexual tension before it had a chance to develop in kind.

“Oh, don’t worry, I will,” Steve said brightly, taking Bucky’s hand and pulling him into the dining room.

Sam was just finishing filling the last few cups, and then he stood back as if admiring his work. “So, we’re one man extra, so someone needs to sit this round out.”

Bucky resisted the urge to volunteer; he had never played beer pong and didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of Steve and all of Steve’s closest friends, but he also didn’t want Steve to think he was some sort of wet blanket.

Thankfully, Steve wound an arm around Bucky’s waist and squeezed before leaning down and whispering into Bucky’s ear, “Have you played this before?”

Bucky shook his head.

“Wanna just watch and see how it works?”

Bucky nodded gratefully and Steve straightened back up. “Bucky’s okay with sitting this one out. But he’s on my team next.”

“Who says you got next?” Clint challenged, picking a few ping-pong balls out of the pocket of his cargo shorts.

“‘Cause winner always gets next, and I’m gonna win,” Steve replied simply.

“Not so fast, hotshot. Barton and I are gonna kick you and Sam’s asses,” Natasha boasted.

Steve rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d love to see you try.”

Natasha just rolled her eyes, grabbed a ping-pong ball from Clint, tossed it lightly, and landed it squarely in the point of the triangle on Steve’s side. “Still sure, Rogers?”

Steve rolled his eyes, leaned forward to grab the cup, and chugged it.

There was something, something stupid, in Bucky’s hindbrain that got going seeing Steve’s Adam’s apple working as he chugged the drink. It made Bucky blush and lean against the side table, grateful that everyone was too enamored in the game to spare him so much as a passing glance.

The first game went quickly, Natasha and Steve easily sinking every ball, and Clint and Sam making it about every third or so try. Eventually, it was down to just two cups on Steve and Sam’s side and one on Natasha and Clint’s.

It was Steve’s turn. He easily sunk the ball, and cheered stupidly loudly when Natasha rolled her eyes and finished the drink.

“Buck, you ready to play?” Steve asked, looking over at Bucky happily.

Bucky nodded. He was nervous; he didn’t want to fuck up Steve’s winning streak. Sam just made it worse, gently hip-checking Bucky as they walked past each other and whispering “Good luck,” in his ear.

It made Bucky want to glom onto Steve like a fucking barnacle for the rest of the night, since Steve was Bucky’s biggest source of comfort in the room, but he didn’t, leaning a little more on the relaxation that beer had given him than he would’ve liked. Instead, he just watched as Natasha and Sam high-fived, forming a team of their own, and leaving Clint to lean against the side table.

“Steve, I still don’t know how to play,” Bucky whispered desperately as Nat began to refill the cups. He’d been too distracted by watching Steve to bother and try to understand the rules.

“Just get the ball into their cups and drink when I tell you to. It’ll be fun. And if you don’t wanna drink anymore, just let me know. No one will give you any shit, okay?” Steve said gently, squeezing Bucky’s hip.

Bucky nodded and watched as Sam started the game, landing a ball in the point of the triangle closest to Bucky.

“Drink,” Steve whispered, so Bucky did.

He couldn’t chug as quickly as Steve had, and a little bit of liquid dribbled out of the corners of his mouth onto his cheeks, making him blush furiously, but Steve didn’t seem to notice. He just pressed a ball into Bucky’s hand and kissed his cheek.

That got Bucky blushing even worse, but he had a mission. He couldn’t make Steve, or himself, for that matter, look stupid. Steve was behind Bucky, hands tightly on Bucky’s hips.

The contact burned almost to the point of discomfort, but when Bucky looked back, Steve just nodded. “Just loosen up and aim for the middle of their triangle. You got it,” Steve reassured, squeezing Bucky’s hips before letting him go and giving Bucky some much-needed breathing room.

Bucky bit the inside of his lip and launched the ball. It glanced off the rim of one of the cups and bounced onto the floor.

Bucky hung his head, not wanting to make a big deal out of it, but feeling horrendously embarrassed, both for himself and for Steve. But Steve’s hands on Bucky’s hips were back, and he was pulling Bucky back toward him, so Bucky’s back was pressed against Steve’s front.

“That’s okay, honey. Great first try.”

Bucky blushed at the praise, and tried to refocus on the game.

He and Steve, of course, lost badly, but Bucky took it in stride, only feeling a little embarrassed when he excused himself to the bathroom since the beer had run through him stupidly quickly.

As he zipped himself back up and washed his hands, he couldn’t help but look at himself in the bathroom mirror. His cheeks were lightly flushed from the gentle buzz he was feeling, and his hair was a little mussed from Steve petting it, but he looked mostly coherent and, if he was being honest, kind of nice. His five o’clock shadow was nice and dark, and it made his lips look soft and plush.

For a minute there, he could almost see what Steve saw in him.

Bucky dried his hands and walked back out. Everyone else was clustered around the table, focusing on playing another game.

Bucky caught just the tail-end of what Natasha was saying, something about Steve needing to be careful with how he was playing, but he couldn’t bring himself to really listen. He felt nice and buzzed and relaxed.

He leaned against the side table, sitting out the next few rounds to avoid getting too drunk, since that never worked well with his painkillers.

And, as the night progressed and it became clearer to Bucky that he was gonna have to call Quill since Steve was in no state to give Bucky a ride, Bucky found that he kind of minded; Bucky liked driving with Steve and mocking his music taste.

Bucky liked Steve, really. That man had a giant heart and soft lips and was just perfect.

Bucky was stupidly lucky. He was an anxious mess, with a fucked up shoulder and a more fucked up mind, but Steve took care of him and was good and soft with him. Bucky really, really liked Steve. That was a good thing, Bucky decided, since the realization just made him happy instead of nervous.

Steve was starting to make him happy instead of nervous, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update speed is probably going to be slower for an undefined amount of time; syllabus week starts tomorrow. However, I'm going to try to get a chapter out about every week, usually on Saturday or Sunday.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I'll do my best to update regularly with uni, but it's not always easy.

This was a mistake. Bucky knew it was a mistake, yet, nevertheless, here he was, waiting for Steve to pick him up outside of a synagogue.

It was a small one, about a half hour from Bucky’s apartment, and the congregants had been kind and welcoming, inviting him to the break-fast and other services. Bucky had politely declined them all; he had other plans tonight, and, despite the kindness of the congregation, he didn’t really want to go to services unless it was a big holiday like Yom Kippur. It made him uncomfortable, all the talk of peace and love when he’d represented the exact antithesis of that ideal for literal years.

Bucky checked his phone for the third time in as many minutes to see if Steve had texted him; Steve wasn’t late yet, since the services had ended earlier than Bucky had told Steve they would, but no one wanted to stand and wait to be picked up when they were all light-headed and exhausted.

Bucky had definitely made a mistake, though; no one wanted to be around a fasting person. They were lazy and rude and bothersome, and Steve didn’t deserve to deal with that.

Steve also definitely didn’t deserve to deal with the slightly more risque part of Bucky’s plan for the day: instead of bringing a change of clothes, Bucky had decided to just laze around in a T-shirt and his boxers. Bucky had no idea why he had made that choice. On one hand, boxers and a T-shirt was infinitely more comfortable than any other clothes, but on the other, boxers showed a lot of thigh and ass and . . . everything else. Bucky clearly hadn’t been thinking when he’d left for services that morning.

Steve could always swing back by Bucky’s place, but it would be in the exact opposite direction, and Bucky couldn’t do that to Steve. No one wanted to sit in LA traffic for longer than they were required to.

Bucky should just call Quill and get the fuck out of there, before he could make a fool out of himself. This way at least, he’d spare Quill a drive, since Steve would almost definitely kick Bucky out of his house when he saw that Bucky was only in boxers.

It’s not like Bucky was planning to, like, seduce Steve or anything. Bucky probably wouldn’t even be up to kissing Steve the whole day. He just wanted to be comfortable, and thought wearing just boxers and a T-shirt would be okay. Of course, it wasn’t okay, not even a little bit, at least not to Bucky.

Why hadn’t Bucky just thought about it for more than thirty goddamn seconds?!

Finally, when Bucky was about to text Steve not to bother coming, Steve’s cherry red sports car squealed to a stop in front of the synagogue.

Bucky stood there, stock still, like Steve was a T-rex and wouldn’t see Bucky unless he moved. If that was even true. All of Bucky’s knowledge about T-rexes was just from Jurassic Park, and he didn’t know how accurate that was.

Steve was rolling the passenger side window down, and Bucky twisted his thoughts away from the potential inaccuracies of Hollywood blockbusters as he felt mortification crawl up his spine. He couldn’t do this. He needed to run the fuck away, run all the way back to his apartment and hide under a billion blankets until he suffocated and died.

But the window was down now, and Steve was smiling kindly at Bucky behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. Bucky couldn’t run now. Steve would see, and judge him. So Bucky just stayed, glued to the spot and blinking nervous tears out of his eyes. He’d fucked up. Badly.

He was out of his mind. Why the hell did he think just wearing boxers would be a good idea? Steve would probably be repulsed, assuming Bucky was trying to be seductive, even though it wasn’t like that at all. He just wanted to be comfortable, that was all.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve called from the car. “You ready?”

Bucky desperately wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. Steve was right there, and if Bucky ran, Steve’s feelings would inevitably be hurt, since Steve had invited Bucky to hang out with him and all. That was unacceptable. So Bucky sat rooted to the spot, frozen.

“Buck?” Steve called, his smile fading and concern replacing it. “Everything okay?”

Bucky saw Steve put the car in park, and let out a soft, choked sound. Steve was going to get out of the car and go to Bucky! Bucky was already a major inconvenience, and he didn’t want to make it worse by forcing Steve to get out of the car when Steve shouldn’t have to.

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbled, running toward the car and throwing himself into it, buckling his seatbelt and avoiding eye contact to the best of his ability.

“Hi, baby,” Steve said, rolling up the window and leaning forward to kiss Bucky.

Bucky didn’t move into it like he always did, and ignored Steve’s resulting frown. If Bucky ignored it, maybe it wasn’t real. Steve paused, his eyebrows furrowed, then continued and kissed Bucky’s cheek instead of his lips like Steve had clearly meant to in the first place.

Steve took Bucky’s hand and put it on his own lap. Bucky didn’t make any move to stop him, but didn’t squeeze Steve’s hand like he normally would.

“Everything okay, sweetie?” Steve asked, kissing Bucky’s knuckles.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. He felt painfully embarrassed, and Steve hadn’t even seen his stupid boxers yet. Bucky couldn’t tell Steve either; Steve would drive Bucky back to his apartment so Bucky could grab a change of clothes, and that would be a painful inconvenience for Steve. But Bucky had to calm down; he couldn’t just throw his brewing panic attack at Steve like that.

“Tired,” Bucky finally mumbled.

“Aw, honey,” Steve murmured, kissing Bucky’s knuckles again. It took everything in Bucky not to melt into the pet name and tell Steve everything. “Lemme get you home so you can relax.”

Bucky blushed when Steve said “home.” It was like Bucky belonged there, too, and wasn’t the intrusive monster he clearly was being.

Steve’s voice was soothing, and Bucky felt himself calming down a little bit, thankfully. It was probably going to be okay. After all, Steve did own pants, too, and he’d probably let Bucky borrow a pair; he’d let Bucky borrow clothes before. And, besides, even if Steve wouldn’t give Bucky any pants, boxers didn’t show too much that swim trunks didn’t show; it was nothing Steve hadn’t seen before.

“I’ve gotta let go of your hand so I can get onto the road. That okay?” Steve’s lips were back on Bucky’s knuckles, warm and soft and perfect.

Bucky nodded jerkily; it was okay. Bucky was okay. Steve was okay and Steve would take care of Bucky. He’d proven himself a million times before, and showed no sign of changing now.

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand tightly before releasing it. Bucky was so, so lucky. Steve was taking care of Bucky, even though Bucky was an annoying bother. What the hell had Bucky done in a past life to deserve this?

“Besides being tired, how were services?” Steve asked, pulling out of the parking lot and back onto the main road.

Bucky relaxed a little bit more; this felt more normal. Just Steve driving him around. Steve and Bucky’s wants and needs were equal, and Bucky needed to be comfortable today. Steve could deal with any repulsion he felt later. 

Bucky took a few deep breaths before answering, “Good. People talked to me more than at Rosh Hashanah, which felt a little weird, but it was good. How about you? How was your morning?” Bucky’s motivation behind asking wasn’t entirely selfless; he had been standing for hours, and had just narrowly avoided a panic attack -- talking was just a little beyond his capabilities right now. He just wanted to form a lump on Steve’s couch and watch a documentary or something equally calm before falling asleep in front of the TV.

“It was good,” Steve said, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “Went for a run, worked a little on my lines, the usual. How’re you feeling besides tired? Anything hurting? I know standing still for a while can kill your back.”

Bucky shrugged; his back did hurt, and his stomach, and so did his throat a little. However, talking about what hurt without launching into a spiral of complaining was out of his grasp for the moment, and he didn’t want to be a drama queen. He mostly just wanted to sleep.

“Well, you look gorgeous. Who knew you cleaned up so well?” Steve teased.

Bucky flushed and shook his head. He was wearing his good suit, the navy one that his mom insisted made his eyes look good, and a plain white button-up with a gray tie. It was just a suit, one he hadn’t gotten cleaned in ages, but Steve was looking at it like it was some expensive outfit commissioned specially for him by Prada or something. It was sweet, and if Bucky wasn’t so exhausted and still feeling shy, he almost certainly would have begged Steve to pull into an alley or something so they could make out.

But he was hopelessly exhausted, so he just tugged Steve’s hand from where it was resting on the center console and squeezed it tightly. “Can I hold your hand again?”

Steve’s face spread into a wide smile. “Please.”

“You look gorgeous, too, you know” Bucky mumbled. He’d said it too late and had interrupted himself before saying it, but at least he’d gotten it out. Of course, the compliment wasn’t nearly enough to describe how good Steve looked, in just a white T-shirt and jeans and sunglasses. There weren’t words to describe how good Steve looked. They’d have to make a whole new dictionary to find something even in the same ballpark as Steve.

The train of thought made something twist in Bucky’s gut; he really couldn’t help himself from gushing, even to himself, when he was this tired and coming down from being that anxious. Bucky just wanted to climb Steve like a tree (once he got enough strength to, that is). Bucky just couldn’t help the words from tumbling from his mouth as he said, “You’re always beautiful. Just a work of art, Steve.”

Bucky looked down, shocked and embarrassed by his outburst.

But Steve just took Bucky’s hand from Bucky’s lap and brought it to his own lips, kissing the knuckles lightly. “Thanks, honey. And you really do look incredible in that suit. Are you gonna be comfortable when we get to my house, though?”

Bucky shrugged noncommittally. The moment he’d been dreading was here. Maybe Bucky should convert to Mormonism; their underwear covered everything from the knee all the way up to the neck and forearms, so he would never have to worry about not having enough coverage. That way, even if he’d neglected to bring pants, at least he’d have more coverage than just a T-shirt and boxers.

It wasn’t that Bucky was actually nervous about his virtue or anything, either, though. He just wanted to be perfect for Steve, since Steve deserved nothing less, and it was easier to be perfect when the most sensitive parts of him were left to the imagination. Of course, Steve had touched him there and everything, but touch was hell of a lot different than sight, and boxers exposed him.

Bucky swallowed down the embarrassed cry lodged in his throat. He deserved to feel comfortable, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t look perfect, he reminded himself. It was okay.

After all, Steve was a mensch. Steve would probably keep his distaste to himself and let Bucky down easy. Bucky could handle that. He’d handled worse.

“I can always loan you my clothes. I don’t think I have anything left that’s small enough for you, but a big hoodie’s always nicer than a well-fitting one, anyway,” Steve said, rubbing the back of Bucky’s hand with his thumb.

Bucky did really like drowning in Steve’s hoodies. Other than the one he’d accidentally stolen, Bucky’d worn them a few more times, when they’d been hanging out and it was getting late and Bucky didn’t want to wear a real shirt anymore. Besides, more fabric covering his arm was never a bad idea.

His shoulder wasn’t hurting too bad today, either, just a light ache without any of the oversensitivity that the scratchy suit material rubbing against it usually brought. It was nothing, really, so the heaviness of the hoodie fabric wouldn’t be awful.

Bucky hadn’t talked to Steve about his shoulder at all, not even mentioning the two pills tightly wrapped in a Ziploc in his pocket for when he could eat again. If it started hurting, he’d just beg for distance, and if Steve pressed, he’d just say it was the fasting; Steve probably wouldn’t be able to tell, especially if Bucky was swaddled in a giant hoodie like he was now planning to be.

And, if the hoodie was big enough to cover his ass, Bucky could continue to forgo pants and wind up being more comfortable both physically and mentally, anyway.

All in all, the hoodie sounded like a genius idea.

“Okay,” Bucky replied, “hoodie sounds great. Can it be a fleece-lined one?”

Bucky knew he was probably being a bother, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop; he was exhausted already, and hungry, and wanted the comfort the soft lining would bring.

Luckily, Steve didn’t bring up the fact that Bucky was spoiled, chuckling lightly instead. “Fuzzy socks, too?”

Bucky nodded plaintively; he’d probably look like a three year old, or a teenager going through a bad breakup, but fuzzy socks sounded amazing right then. He used to freeze them and put them on his shoulder, since they were the only things that didn’t ache horribly when they thawed. Fuzzy socks were a godsend for Bucky.

“Okay, Buck. Whatever you need.”

Bucky really was spoiled, if Steve was going to be this doting while Bucky was being so annoying.

They finished the drive in silence, Bucky noting with a quiet thrill that the radio was firmly turned off so Bucky wouldn’t get annoyed by Steve’s horrific music taste. It made Bucky smile and lean down to kiss Steve’s hand as they pulled into Steve’s development.

“What was that for?” Steve asked as he rolled down his window to talk to the gate attendant, Bucky hardly even looking up. It was kind of weird to Bucky how quickly he’d gotten used to Steve’s whole rich person set-up, and how accustomed the attendants were to Bucky by now, but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to think about it too hard right then.

However, it was difficult not to when he muttered, “Just ‘cause,” and that made the attendant grin wolfishly.

“Do you want to give Mr. Barnes a permanent visitor’s pass?” she asked, eyeing the way Bucky was cradling Steve’s hand in his own lap.

Bucky blushed at the fact that he’d been there enough that she’d thought to learn his name and ask about the pass, and he shook his head so fast that it, combined with the dehydration, made his head spin. “Don’t worry, Steve. I don’t wanna bother you.”

Steve didn’t even glance at Bucky, just rolled his eyes at Bucky and nodded at the attendant. She smiled, and slipped a green plastic rectangle to Steve. It looked like a credit card, but thinner and translucent.

“Thanks. See you later,” Steve said, passing the card to Bucky with the hand not holding Bucky’s before placing it on the wheel and accelerating through the now-open gate.

“What was that?” Bucky asked softly, pressing the plastic into his palm. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You said you didn’t want to be a bother. This ensures you aren’t, because I won’t have to buzz you in whenever you come over without me driving you. Just give it to Quill when he drives you, okay?” Steve said, easily navigating the neighborhood while sparing a few glances at Bucky.

“Steve, seriously, I don’t want to make a fuss.”

“Good. Now you aren’t. Now stop freaking out, or you’re gonna pass out.”

“Steve-”

“Buck, it’s not like I’m asking you to move in with me or something. It’s just so we can hang out more easily.”

That shut Bucky up. The idea of moving in with Steve, the idea that the thought had even crossed Steve’s mind, was more than enough to knock Bucky into a stunned silence. He was stupid lucky, especially when he considered that he might get to be lucky enough to move in with Steve Rogers.

The idea of folding Steve’s laundry and doing dishes with Steve didn’t freak Bucky out like it probably should have this early into seeing Steve. Instead, it made him feel calmer than he had earlier, the last of the nerves about the boxers dissipating.

The idea that Bucky might be okay with moving in with Steve this early was objectively terrifying, and it made Bucky shift slightly uncomfortably in his seat. They’d been seeing each other for barely two months, and here Bucky was, imagining the ways he’d arrange Steve’s sock drawer for maximum convenience.

It made Bucky feel weird, and uncomfortable, and kind of sick, that he was this eager to make him and Steve more permanent. If there even was a him-and-Steve. They still hadn’t defined anything. He didn’t feel exactly nervous, though, which was the weirdest thing in and of itself.

Bucky glanced out of the corner of his eye at Steve to see if Steve had noticed Bucky’s discomfort, but Steve appeared to have not have. Bucky relaxed the slightest bit, and made himself let go of Steve’s hand so Steve could park in the garage.

Bucky unbuckled, hopped out of the car, and leaned against the garage door, stuffing the vistor pass into his pocket while Steve locked the car. Bucky flopped down on the couch as soon as Steve let him in the house, not caring that he was probably wrinkling his nice suit. He was exhausted already, and it was barely one in the afternoon.

Steve walked over to him and reached for Bucky’s hand to pull him up. “C’mon. I don’t want you to mess up your suit. Lemme take you to my room; the bed’s bigger and softer than the couch, and I’ll find you a nice hoodie, and then we can watch TV or take a nap or something.”

Bucky sighed and shook his head; he didn’t want to move, much less go into Steve’s bedroom. Bedrooms were inherently more private than the living rooms and kitchens that Bucky and Steve had confined themselves to before. Steve’s room would smell like him, would give Bucky clues to Steve’s nighttime habits, a decidedly intimate thing, and the last thing Bucky wanted was to intrude.

Seeing Steve’s bed, whether it was made or unmade, what he had on his nightstand, where he kept his pajamas was intimate. And Bucky was happy Steve was trusting him like this, but it made Bucky feel a weird flippy feeling in the pit of his stomach, not quite anxiety, but not distant from it either. What if there were red flags all over Steve’s room, or if, somehow worse, it was neat and perfect and made Bucky want Steve even more? That would just make it hurt worse when he was inevitably rejected.

But Steve was tugging Bucky’s arm, gentle but insistent, and Bucky followed Steve to the wooden staircase that Bucky hadn’t even given himself permission to glance at. He tried not to drag his feet too obviously, wanting to stay in the blissful ignorance of not knowing anything this intimate about Steve, but Steve clearly noticed, raising an eyebrow as they climbed the stairs.

“Everything good, Buck?” Steve asked gently as they rounded the top of the stairs, and Steve guided Bucky down a carpeted hallway to a slightly ajar door at the end.

Bucky shrugged; he was nowhere near eloquent enough at that moment to explain to Steve that he felt weird about seeing Steve’s bedroom not because of anything physical, but because he didn’t want to be aware of any potential red flags because he didn’t want any reason to not want Steve.

Steve opened the door for Bucky, and Bucky actually sighed in relief on how normal the room looked. There was literally nothing out of the ordinary; just a soft-looking taupe comforter spread over the neatly made bed, a sky blue lamp on the nightstand next to a stack of vinyl records and a phonograph, and an obscene number of framed photos spread over every available surface, everything from the vanity to the dresser to the bookshelf; Bucky recognized Natasha and Sam and Clint in some of the more recent ones, and numerous other celebrities scattered around (was that Meryl Streep on the dresser?!) in random photos, plus at least fifty pictures of a gorgeous blonde woman with warm blue eyes.

There was a kid with her in a few pictures, and Bucky realized with a warm smile that the kid was Steve. The woman had the same eyes as him; it must have been his mother.

This was rather terrifying to Bucky; this really was quite intimate. It made Bucky blush and stare at his feet, like he was intruding on something sacred even though Steve had invited him in here.

Steve was suddenly in front of Bucky, holding out a big pink hoodie with a pair of blue fuzzy socks folded neatly on top. “This good?” Steve asked.

Steve had a gentle smile on his face, and his sunglasses were pushed up on his forehead. He looked peaceful, and safe, and, suddenly, seeing pictures of Steve’s mother wasn’t so scary. After all, she was just an extension of Steve, and Steve was safe.

“Yeah.” Bucky distracted himself from the intimacy by holding the hoodie out in front of him and grinning; it was gigantic to the point where it would go down at least to Bucky’s mid-thigh, if not his knees, and read “Brooklyn” in big pink block lettering. It was perfect.

He felt calm again, despite the intimacy. Steve was just doing what Steve did; taking care of Bucky.

“Do you want pants? I don’t know if they’ll fit you, but-”

“This is perfect,” Bucky said. The hoodie would cover him plenty, and this way he wouldn’t need to deal with more fabric than necessary, ensuring maximum comfort. He had scars beyond his shoulder, none as bad and none close to as sensitive, but sensitive all the same, and the less fabric on them, the better. “I’d be too hot with pants. This hoodie is pretty much a dress, anyway.”

“Biggest hoodie I own,” Steve said proudly. “Thought it’d be nice. I got it at a Comicon a few years ago.”

“It’s perfect,” Bucky repeated, noticing that he wasn’t quite sure if he meant the hoodie or Steve. 

“I’m glad. I’ll let you get changed.” Steve gave Bucky a swift kiss on the cheek before leaving the room and shutting it behind him.

Bucky let his eyes flutter closed as he appreciated Steve for a moment. Bucky hadn’t even had to ask for privacy; Steve just knew. Steve knew Bucky didn’t want a kiss on the mouth after avoiding it the first time, and hadn’t even tried. Bucky was stupidly lucky, and it made him smile like an idiot as he slipped off his jacket and tie and folded them neatly before placing them on the corner of the bed.

He unbuttoned his shirt and took a minute to study his shoulder in just the thin undershirt. The very bottom edge of the lowest scar curved out of the shirt, pink and garish. Bucky was even more glad he accepted the hoodie from Steve now; he hadn’t noticed that anything was at all visible when he’d put the shirt on that morning.

Bucky turned away, not wanting to stare at it any longer than he had to. He yanked the hoodie over his head instead of focusing on the scars, and released an involuntary sigh at how soft it was. It felt like the clouds had been captured and sewn into a fluffy masterpiece, swaddling Bucky down to almost his knees.

Bucky unbuttoned his slacks, shucking them off and folding them too. His boxers were a light azure, with two buttons to close the front so Steve couldn’t glance at anything. At least Bucky’d thought that far ahead. But it wouldn’t even matter, not with how long the hoodie was. Bucky wasn’t even worried that Steve would look, of course. Knowing Steve, Bucky would have to sign out his written consent for Steve to do anything remotely close to that.

Bucky liked that about Steve so much. Steve was just a Good Guy, through and through. It was why, despite Bucky knowing that Steve was the hottest man on the planet and had about 23.7 million Instagram followers clamoring to be in Bucky’s position, Bucky felt, through the nerves, safe shooting for maximum comfort over modesty. If it were up to Bucky, he’d be shirtless, too, but, sadly, the scars had made that decision for him.

It wasn’t like Bucky thought that Steve would kick him to the curb just because of the shoulder. He thought Steve would kick him to the curb because of everything that came with the shoulder; the insecurity and the pain and the constant reliance on medication and the need for continuous positive reinforcement from everyone around Bucky and the pure anger that came with having Bucky’s body ruined when he’d done absolutely nothing wrong except serve his country.

Steve had already seen little glimpses into all of that, despite Bucky trying his best to shove it down. But as it stood, it just seemed like Bucky had some general anxiety and insecurities. Hell, Steve probably thought Bucky didn’t want to take his shirt off because he was just worried about his stomach or something. Steve didn’t know the root of the issue, nor how deep the root went.

Bucky knew he’d have to tell Steve at some point, but that point felt decidedly distant when Bucky was draped in Steve’s gigantic hoodie and Steve was waiting outside the door to just be with Bucky, despite the fact that Bucky was exhausted and starving and useless. It didn’t quite compute: why did Steve want to take care of Bucky? Steve was getting nothing in return except for bad puns and worse handjobs.

It felt like Bucky was in some weird, ludicrously pleasant limbo. Steve liked Bucky for pretty much no reason, and was just being so good to him. Bucky had been bracing for something to come crashing down, for it to start to hurt, but it hadn’t yet. It was weird, and it hurt Bucky’s already overly-light head to think about it.

Steve’s gentle voice cut through the fog that was Bucky’s brain. “Buck? You pass out or something?”

Bucky snorted at Steve’s thinly veiled concern. “I’m good. Just got distracted.”

“Rifling through my drawers?” Steve asked, his voice soft but teasing nonetheless.

“Yep,” Bucky replied promptly. “I mean, I knew you were an actor, but do you really need this much cocaine?”

“Oh, Christ, you found it. Did you find the heroin, too?”

Bucky smiled and shoved his hands into the pocket of the hoodie. “No, but the MDMA stash does feel a little egregious.”

“I just can’t help myself. Can I come in, Buck?”

Bucky gave himself a cursory once-over in the vanity. His hair was loose and a little tangled, but nothing awful. His lips were chapped, but there wasn’t much Bucky could do about that with the whole fasting thing. His thighs were thicker than he would’ve liked, lined with a few remnants of muscle from the army and more fat, but not gross. He had plenty of leg hair, but, again, that was to be expected. The hoodie hid his torso and arms and hung low over his ass. He couldn’t say he exactly minded having his ass covered, but, honestly, he also wouldn’t really care if Steve got a few glances full of Bucky’s ass and bulge through the underwear. Bucky didn’t have anything, like, massively appealing, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that he felt safe enough with Steve that Steve could see what he did have. Through the underwear, of course.

“Yeah, come on in,” Bucky said, tearing his eyes away from the mirror and to the opening door.

“Hi, honey,” Steve said gently, giving Bucky a not-so-subtle once-over.

“Hi,” Bucky said back, looking down at the carpet. He didn’t exactly feel uncomfortable under Steve’s gaze, but he didn’t feel entirely relaxed, either.

“Feeling better?” 

Bucky nodded honestly. Steve was taking care of him, and nothing was truly exposed, and Steve didn’t think it was weird that Bucky would rather be in his boxers. Everything was better.

“It’s crazy how you can look so hot in a suit and then you change into an ugly fucking hoodie and still look hot,” Steve mumbled, almost to himself.

Bucky blushed. “I like the hoodie,” he muttered lamely.

“That’s ‘cause you don’t have a stylist who mocks your every fashion choice,” Steve replied, crossing the few feet over to Bucky and wrapping him in a hug.

“You have good fashion sense,” Bucky argued into Steve’s chest.

Steve’s lips pressed down onto Bucky’s forehead. “No, I’m just a good listener. You go get on the bed; I don’t want you passing out ‘cause of low blood sugar. I’ll be right there, I just wanna hang up your suit so it doesn’t wrinkle, okay?”

“You’re such a mom,” Bucky mumbled, not entirely objecting to idea of Steve babying him, as be obediently crawled on top of the comforter, and let out an involuntary moan at the feel of it. “Is this suede?”

“Yes, it’s suede, and, for the record, I don’t think any mom would find you as hot as I do right now,” Steve retorted, grabbing a few wooden hangers from his closet.

“A mother can still find people hot.” Bucky tried to make his voice sound chiding, but the amount of overwhelmed embarrassment kept the effect from coming across.

“Of course they can. Just not on this level,” Steve teased, shoving the pants through a hanger and hanging it up in the closet.

Bucky rolled his eyes, embarrassment fading in favor of teasing Steve. “And what level would that be?” He wasn’t trying to fish for compliments -- he was honestly curious. He took the pillows and laid them against the headboard so he and Steve could sit up in the bed and see the TV like Steve had promised they’d watch without hurting their necks.

“The level of finding-you-hot-despite-wearing-the-single-most-ugly-piece-of-clothing-on-the-planet level of finding you hot,” Steve explained easily, hanging the suit jacket up and sliding onto the bed next to Bucky.

Bucky immediately curled into Steve’s side, grateful that Steve was on Bucky’s right, so there was no stress on Bucky’s bad shoulder. “I still like this hoodie,” Bucky mumbled.

“You should. You look incredible in it,” Steve replied, wrapping his arm around Bucky’s waist.

Bucky blushed into Steve’s side, smiling as Steve squeezed his arm just the slightest bit tighter around Bucky.

“Wanna watch TV or take a nap?” Steve asked softly.

Bucky shrugged, not wanting to pick something Steve didn’t want.

“Buck?” Steve prompted.

Bucky sighed softly. He really was so tired, but if was sleeping, he couldn’t control himself. He might make a stupid face, or snore, or talk in his sleep, or get a nightmare or something. The last thing Bucky wanted to do was embarrass himself. “TV,” he whispered. His voice was muffled by Steve’s shirt, but Bucky made no moves to sit up and extricate himself. Bucky was comfy and soft and happy like this, and he never wanted to move.

“You sure?” Steve asked warmly.

Bucky nodded without taking his face out of Steve’s flank, inhaling the slight scent of pine on Steve’s shirt; it must have been his detergent or something, it was so strong and enveloping.

Bucky heard the TV click on, but still didn’t move his face to look at it. He was so tired, and Steve was so warm and muscled and perfect.

“You sure you wanna watch TV, Buck?” Steve asked. “You’re already half-asleep.”

“Don’t want you to be bored,” Bucky explained. His mind was working too hard on not complaining about hunger to censor him even a little bit.

Steve chuckled softly, the sound reverberating into Bucky’s cheek and ticking a bit. “Don’t worry about me. You should nap, baby. You must be exhausted.” Steve’s gentle voice cut into the soft static buzzing around Bucky’s brain as Steve brushed Bucky’s hair out of his face with a gentle swipe.

“You’ll stay, right?” Bucky mumbled. He knew he was being plaintive, but he couldn’t help himself. It would physically hurt, like the ache in your throat when you need to cry but don’t, if Steve moved away right now. Bucky was exhausted, and couldn’t handle Steve leaving.

“Of course. Lemme just grab your glasses so you don’t hurt them,” Steve said, gently peeling himself away from Bucky.

Bucky made a soft noise of displeasure, but Steve shushed him. Bucky felt his glasses being tugged off his face, and then Steve was back, warm and solid and perfect.

Bucky was drifting before he could even think about it, the sound of the TV gently rumbling in the background.

***

Bucky felt all stuck together when he woke up, his mouth glued closed with dried spit and his eyes tightly shut with gross eye boogers. He didn’t feel even a little refreshed, just more lethargic and hungry than before.

He slowly took stock of his surroundings. He was on a soft, cottony cloud of fabric, ensconced on all sides by fuzzy flannel sheets. The sheets smelled like pine and soap and something deeper, muskier, that Bucky couldn’t quite put his finger on but enjoyed anyway. Bucky nuzzled into the fluffy pillow he was laid on, stretching out his arms to wrap them around Steve, but the space next to him was cold; Steve was gone.

This made Bucky open his eyes, rubbing them lazily and pointedly ignoring the rat’s nest his hair had wound itself into. Bucky was still in Steve’s room, wrapped up in his bed and wearing his hoodie, but Steve himself was gone. Bucky glanced toward the master bathroom, but it was empty, the light off and the door ajar. Bucky glimpsed a huge jacuzzi tub in the corner, and for a bare moment imagined sitting in that tub with Steve, Bucky’s back flush to Steve’s chest while Steve washed Bucky’s hair. He was so tired that the image didn’t even make him blush.

Bucky shook his head to try and refocus, but that only served to make him dizzy. Why would Steve go? He’d promised he wouldn’t leave. Maybe this, Bucky snoring in Steve’s bed, made Steve realize that this was a big mistake, and he was halfway to San Francisco right now. But then why would he have left Bucky in his bed?

The whole thing didn’t make sense, and Bucky wanted to cry with confusion, but the mere idea of crying was already making his head pound, so he just flopped back down on his side and shivered. He was freezing, just from the sheet slipping down a few inches, and his throat hurt, and his stomach was aching.

Bucky looked at the door to the bedroom, and realized that it was firmly shut, with a white piece of paper taped to it. Bucky blinked a few times, squinting, before realizing that his glasses were on the nightstand and he probably should just put them on if he wanted to read the paper. It felt like he was stretching across an endless abyss as he reached for them, but he got them in hand and put them on, only feeling a little light-headed for his troubles.

Looking back at the note, Bucky realized it said his name in big, bold capitals. It was a note for him, probably telling him that Steve had fled to San Francisco and asking Bucky to please lock the door after him when he left and then delete Steve’s contact. Bucky pushed the huge, heavy duvet off of him to walk across the room and grab the note.

His legs were shaking a little, and he felt freezing as he went and got the note before climbing back into the bed and ensonsing himself in the covers once again. The note was written in Sharpie, the handwriting a chicken scratch, but it was signed from Steve, so Bucky automatically liked it.

The text read simply: “Bucky-- I stayed as long as I could, but it was five thirty, and sunset’s at six thirty, so I wanted to start making dinner and didn’t want to wake you. Don’t open the door!!! I don’t want you to smell the food and get all hungry. If you have questions, call me --Steve.”

After Steve’s name, Steve had scrawled a heart, and it made Bucky smile and hold the note to his chest like he was some woman from the ‘40s who’d just gotten a letter from his sweetheart.

That wasn’t too far off, and it made Bucky blush and pull the covers up over his head as if that would hide his blush from the zero other people in the room. Steve was so perfect, and Bucky wanted to show him that. Not today, of course, but as soon as Bucky wasn’t fasting and wearing the ugliest hoodie in the known universe.

And, as he pulled out his phone and went to his now-favorite Cosmopolitan page, Bucky didn’t even feel a hint of nerves, just the gentle lull of excitement.

Bucky spent the next half hour scrolling through Cosmopolitan and then Twitter, anxiously awaiting six thirty so he could eat.

Finally, at six thirty on the dot, he got a text from Steve. It read simply: “Dinner’s ready,” with a little smiley face emoji tacked onto the end, the blush-y one. It made Bucky beam as he got up, wrapping his arms tightly around himself since it was so fucking cold without Steve’s massive duvet. He was still in the hoodie, but it wasn’t quite enough.

Bucky opened the door, regretting that he hadn’t brought a toothbrush, since he was certain his breath smelled like death, when he was met with the scent of incredible food, something warm and savory like stewed onions. His mouth was literally watering as he hobbled down the stairs, trying not to fall on his shivering legs.

Steve’s back was to Bucky, facing the stove, and Bucky used the opportunity to take a minute and study Steve’s corded muscles through his T-shirt, feeling too out of it to bother to announce his presence. But then Steve was turning and Bucky was glomming onto him, face nestled into Steve’s neck and chests flush against each other.

“Hi,” Steve said, rubbing Bucky’s back through the hoodie.

“Hi,” Bucky replied. “Thank you for cooking. I owe you one.”

Steve laughed and squeezed Bucky tightly before gently separating himself. “I don’t know about that. You haven’t even tried it yet,” Steve teased, turning back to the stove.

“I’m sure it’s perfect.”

“I just made some chicken noodle soup. Is that okay? I probably should’ve asked but I wanted to surprise you.” Steve grabbed two bowls out of the cabinet, and Bucky felt a small, tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach. It somehow traveled up to the back of Bucky’s throat, making it ache a little bit. Bucky chalked it up to his hunger and swallowed down the ache.

“It’s perfect,” Bucky sighed.

And it was, eating with Steve’s knee knocking his, and feeling all the horribleness of fasting melting away as easily as Bucky had melted into Steve’s side earlier.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Bucky had been in plenty of situations where he hadn’t known how to act before. There had been his bar mitzvah, where his Grandma had started talking out his naked baby photos during her toast and passing it around to the hundred-plus guests. There had been his high school graduation party, where he’d walked in on his best friend and crush making out under the pool table. Or, just a few months after he’d been discharged, when he’d been invited to a Halloween party at NYU, and his sleeves had been too short and everyone had started praising his skill with prosthetic makeup.

Or when he was applying to grad schools and had a panic attack in the waiting room for one of the interviews and had had to reschedule the whole thing despite being just down the hall, cowered in the bathroom, at the proper time. Or when he’d gotten full professor at age thirty-one, a feat no one (to his knowledge) had ever accomplished.

Even in recent memory, it had happened. When he’d dumped coffee all over Steve before even knowing Steve, and when he’d then seen Steve at the bar with Pepper and everyone. When Steve had kissed him on the Fourth of July. Even as recent as two weeks ago, on Yom Kippur, with the whole boxers incident.

But all of those times, Bucky at least had had an idea, an inkling of what he was supposed to do, of what a normal person would have done. Blushing and moving on, or just getting the hell out of there and renegotiating his expectations of how he was supposed to act from then on, or just going with the flow and letting himself be guided by everyone else.

But this . . . Bucky was fucking clueless. He’d just wanted to grab coffee with Steve and talk about how the film was going, or what Steve was planning on doing for Halloween, or how nice Steve looked in his button-down. But instead, he was hovering a few feet behind Steve on the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets, while Steve took selfie after selfie with a crowd of teenaged girls who had appeared literally out of nowhere.

In fact, Steve had an actual line now, winding down the sidewalk for nearly half a block, of people craning their necks to catch a glimpse of Steve.

It wasn’t like Bucky didn’t understand; he would have been in that line less than four months previous, phone in hand and palms painfully sweaty. Steve was a fucking American icon; of course people were clamoring to meet him. Honestly, it was more surprising that it hadn’t yet happened on one of their maybe-dates.

Of course, Steve had always taken him to out-of-the-way places: private beaches and seedy bars and dirty bowling alleys that had Bucky pulling out his hand sanitizer every other minute. This was the first time they’d gone to anywhere more public and had actually gotten out of the car.

Bucky felt a twinge of respect and adoration for Steve, for the fact that Steve was willing to take Bucky to a fancy coffee shop Bucky had seen on Buzzfeed so Bucky could say he’d gone even though it meant that Steve was putting up with taking photos with a million fans.

Steve was being nice about it, too, talking to the nervous fans with ease about their days and how much they loved Steve. Bucky was legitimately impressed; if anyone did that to him, he would be cowed within seconds, and would run home and cry about how intense it was. But Steve was handling it with grace and aplomb and hugging more people than Bucky would have ever thought possible.

Of course, that left Bucky trailing awkwardly behind Steve, drumming his fingers on his thigh and debating whether or not it’d be rude to get his phone out. Steve was obviously otherwise occupied, but it was still technically a date. Or, if it wasn’t truly a date since they still hadn’t discussed what their relationship was, it still was a Tuesday after filming had wrapped, and Bucky had made tentative . . . plans for what he wanted to do once they got back to Bucky’s apartment.

Not anything concrete, but Bucky wanted to do, well, more, with Steve, and he had some ideas. Again, not really anything, but not really nothing, either. Nothing that involved getting truly naked, though. That was still a hard boundary for Bucky. Besides, it wasn’t quite time to tell Steve all about Bucky’s bad shoulder, anyway. But there was more they could do without Bucky having to remove his shirt.

Bucky stepped back from his awkward hovering around the edges of Steve’s aura and leaned against the brick wall of the building instead, letting Steve work his magic without Bucky having to think about whether or not he was being a bother.

The brick hurt his bad shoulder; it had been a medium day pain-wise, the pain not quite searing up his spine and down to his fingertips the way it did when it was awful, but not quiet either. Bucky had taken an extra painkiller, and it was helping, but it didn’t change the fact that it sucked. Bucky stood up a little straighter, taking the pressure of his shoulder so he wouldn’t groan in pain and cause a scene or bother Steve or something.

Instead of worrying about his shoulder, Bucky decided to focus on what they could do when they got back to Bucky’s place. Bucky still didn’t know the best way to ask Steve. It would be painfully crass to just say something like, “I wanna suck your dick, please and thank you,” but begging for permission was both pathetic and sleazy. Bucky just wanted Steve to know how perfect he was, if the line of squealing people waiting to meet him wasn’t enough.

Bucky wanted to hug Steve right then, and tell him how crazy it was that he was capable of being calm and eloquent and perfect when he was being mobbed with people. Bucky wanted to tug Steve by his wrist away from everyone and into the stupid coffee shop so Bucky could get the charcoal mocha with its pitch black whipped cream and put it on his Instagram. Bucky wanted to make out with Steve right then and there.

But he couldn’t do any of that, just like he couldn’t tell Steve about the shoulder. At least not yet. They hadn’t talked about what was okay in public so, since it was Steve who had something to actually lose if Bucky did something, Bucky had always let Steve take the lead, both in public and private. So far, that meant sitting a little closer than normal in regular circumstances, like on set, hand-holding in more secluded locations, like seedy bars, and absolutely nothing beyond the level of friendliness in more public places, like now.

If it were up to Bucky, Bucky would be glommed onto Steve 24/7; Steve made Bucky feel safe, and Bucky wanted to soak that up as much as possible. But it wasn’t possible, so Bucky leaned his lower back against the brick wall and let it jab into his hips as he rubbed hand sanitizer into his hands.

He watched Steve, trying not to be creepy but probably failing. Steve just looked so at ease, and genuinely happy, and gorgeous. It made the ache of excitement in Bucky’s belly grow just a little bit. He really was genuinely excited to suck Steve’s dick, which was both kind of gross and kind of funny and kind of sweet at the same time.

He hoped Steve would let him. Bucky would do his fucking best, but he was so out of pratice that it probably wouldn’t be perfect. Steve might just stop him in the middle, and the idea of that hurt. If Steve wanted it in the first place.

Bucky folded his arms around his midsection like Steve could sense his apprehension and Bucky had to hide it, despite the fact that Steve’s back was turned and Bucky appeared to be the last thing on his mind. Bucky wanted to be upset about that fact, since any normal person who was meant to be on a date would probably be pissed if their partner started hanging out with a crowd of literal strangers instead, but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to. Steve looked so comfortable with this, after all, and, besides, Bucky would have Steve all to himself later. It would be selfish to be mad at Steve right now.

Besides, he looked so nice that the only thing Bucky felt towards Steve was the need to jump his bones.

Bucky was getting turned on, so, despite his love of watching Steve, he forced his gaze away and let himself pull out his phone and scroll through Twitter instead. It was pretty mindless, but at least it wasn’t turning Bucky on.

Finally, nearly an hour later, when Bucky’s phone was about to die, Steve peeled himself away from his adoring crowd and turned back to Bucky, smiling apologetically.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Steve said, his voice too low to be heard by anyone except Bucky. “You still up for coffee?”

***

Later, after Steve had gotten Bucky his coffee, not sitting nearly as close as Bucky wanted, and after they had driven to Bucky’s apartment and Bucky felt like his throat was closing up due to something equidistant between nerves and anxiety, and after they had gotten in the door and Steve was picking up Eustace and layering kisses on his forehead, Bucky finally asked Steve.

Well, not asked so much as told.

“Steve?” Bucky said, thumbing the edge of his shirt.

“Yeah?” Steve asked, plopping Eustace onto the couch with a few more pets to his chin.

Bucky swallowed. There was no way to phrase this sexily; he just had to be direct. “I wanna suck your dick.”

Steve, who had been distracted by Eustace, whipped around like he’d been struck. He had a blush high on his cheekbones, and it made Bucky blush in turn because he’d been able to make Steve feel like that: embarrassed and maybe, if Bucky dared to hope, turned on. Steve’s mouth was hanging open and his eyes were wide, his hands out in front of him like he was protecting himself from some sort of blow. Bucky swallowed, waiting for any kind of response. Anything other than this stunned silence, which felt like it was driving an icicle into Bucky’s heart with every second it stretched on.

“Are you sure?” Steve finally said, thirty painful seconds too late.

Bucky nodded, out of words to explain why he wanted, was longing to do this. “I don’t have to, though, if you don’t want me to.” Bucky’s voice was small, but he needed to give Steve an out. He didn’t want to pressure Steve into doing anything he wasn’t enthusiastically consenting to.

Besides, Steve had thousands, if not millions of people who would kill to be in Bucky’s place, and they were all probably better than Bucky at blowjobs. It had been literal years since he’d given (or gotten) one, after all. But he just wanted to go a little further than they had been and make Steve feel good, since blowjobs usually felt better than handjobs. Bucky glanced at Steve’s face, expecting it to be closed and annoyed, expecting Steve to be kissing Eustace goodbye and then walking out the door at top speed.

But Steve was just shaking his head vehemently, and closing the space between them, putting his hands firmly on Bucky’s hips in a vice grip. “You have no idea how bad I want you to,” Steve mumbled, punctuating his words by staring right into Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky felt like Steve was searching Bucky’s soul with that look. It was intense and Bucky had to swallow hard to keep from making an embarrassing yelp. “Sounds good,” Bucky squeaked. He cringed at how fucking idiotic that sounded, but Steve just laughed and ducked down to peck the tip of Bucky’s nose.

“Can I reciprocate, baby?” Steve asked, leaning back but still not breaking eye contact.

This was a more difficult choice for Bucky. He’d known, or, really, hoped it was coming, but he hadn’t been able to decide what he wanted, so he’d pushed the very idea out of his mind. There was no way for Steve to give him a blowjob without Bucky having to be at least somewhat out of his pants, which was kind of horrifying to Bucky, but, on the other hand, it’d probably feel amazing both physically and emotionally because this was Steve.

Being exposed, in and of itself, was a lot to consider, though. Bucky had never really judged himself too harshly about that area, but what if Steve did? What if Steve saw it and was disgusted by him? Bucky wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened.

But what if Steve thought he was beautiful and was careful and kind with Bucky? What if Steve was attracted to that part of him? It was the stuff of fantasies, and Bucky didn’t know if he had enough self-control to keep himself from letting Steve suck him off if the latter situation was the case.

Bucky answered honestly, leaning his head forward into Steve’s shoulder so he didn’t have to see Steve’s expression anymore, didn’t have to know if it was disappointed or not. “I don’t know. It makes me nervous.”

Steve shifted around Bucky, moving his hands to wrap around Bucky’s waist instead of Bucky’s hips and kissing the top of Bucky’s head. “What about it’s got you nervous?”

Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s back and squeezed tightly. “What if you don’t like something about it?” Bucky mumbled, feeling a hot coil of preemptive shame twisting up his spine.

“Don’t like something about what?” Steve asked, his breath hot on the crown of Bucky’s head.

Bucky shook his head into Steve’s shoulder. He didn’t want to answer this, didn’t want to crack open the lid on his anxieties. But Steve had asked Bucky outright; he was backed into a corner. Steve was safe for Bucky, but this was scary, and new territory. Every other person he’d dated had just rolled their eyes and told him to get over it, had told him that he’d be fine, but Bucky didn’t want that from Steve. Bucky didn’t know what he did want Steve to say, but it wasn’t that.

“Me,” Bucky whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat and shutting his eyes tightly, ready for Steve to pull back and spout some bullshit about how it’d be fine.

But Steve just stayed there, only moving to cup the back of Bucky’s head and thread his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “I’m not gonna lie to you; it’s scary, baby. But part of a relationsh- of dating is trust. I trust you. Can you trust me?”

Bucky took his face out of Steve’s shoulder and looked back up at Steve’s face. Bucky couldn’t quite read his expression; he looked like he was hurting, his eyes wide and lips lightly pursed, but it was gone within an instant and Steve was smiling instead, warm and insistent.

“I trust you,” Bucky said softly.

“Me too. We doing this?” Steve didn’t break eye contact for a moment, but it felt less intense this time, more safe and less searing.

“We’re doing this,” Bucky confirmed, leaning up a little bit to catch Steve’s lips in a gentle, slow kiss, more just to feel close than anything else.

Steve pulled back, but didn’t give Bucky any breathing room, keeping Bucky tightly in his arms. “Couch or bed?” Steve asked, his eyes flicking back to Bucky’s lips periodically.

Bucky tried to remember if he’d made the bed or not, and was coming up empty. It’s not like Bucky thought Steve would care, but Bucky cared; he wanted to be perfect for Steve. Pushing his attempts at remembering if he made the bed out of his head, he just hoped he hadn’t left his dirty underwear or something out, and pulled Steve toward the bedroom; it was bigger and, therefore, more comfortable, and Steve’s comfort was paramount. Of course, since Steve and Bucky’s wants were equal, Bucky’s comfort was important, too, but Bucky honestly couldn’t care less about his comfort right now; he was half hard just from that kiss and just wanted Steve.

So Bucky opened the door and all but shoved Steve in the room, closing it behind them so Eustace couldn’t get in; as much as he loved Eustace, no one wanted to deal with an ornery cat while getting their dick sucked. Bucky turned his attention back to Steve. He was sat on the corner of the (made, thankfully,) bed, yanking his socks off before turning his attention to the buttons on his shirt.

Bucky couldn’t even bring himself to glance around the room to make sure nothing embarrassing was left out; he was too distracted by Steve and turned on to truly care. Instead of worrying, Bucky shoved his way in between Steve’s legs and ducked down to kiss Steve, replacing Steve’s hands on the buttons with his own.

It was hurried and rushed and clumsy, but Bucky got Steve’s shirt open and was kissing him more heatedly, letting his downstairs brain think for him so he couldn’t get too nervous about this.

Bucky couldn’t handle any more preamble, so he flopped to his knees in front of Steve and was kissing along the waistband of Steve’s jeans when Bucky felt a firm, but gentle hand pushing at his shoulder. “Wait, Buck,” Steve was gasping, “stop.”

Bucky immediately ducked back so his weight was resting on his ass on top of his heels instead of on his knees. What had he done wrong? Was Steve okay? Bucky didn’t know how he’d live with himself if he’d hurt Steve somehow. He thought he’d been doing it all right. 

“Your knees are gonna fucking kill you if we do it like this. Get on the bed,” Steve mumbled, grabbing Bucky under the arms and, half due to Steve lifting and half due to Bucky hauling himself up, Bucky wound up sitting in Steve’s lap on the edge of the bed, balancing precariously on Steve’s thighs.

Bucky went to dive back in, but Steve pulled back. “What?” Bucky asked, trying and failing to keep the anticipation out of his voice. He was hard, and he had Steve under him, and Steve seemed just as turned on as Bucky, from what Bucky could tell through Steve’s jeans. There was no reason to stop.

“We have time, sweetie,” Steve mumbled, pulling Bucky closer to his torso so Bucky wasn’t balanced quite so unevenly and putting his hands on Bucky’s waist, pressing gently. “Let’s just go slow, okay?”

Bucky couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him at Steve’s request. “What happened to the guy who couldn’t handle being left for thirty seconds while I grabbed some lube?” Bucky asked, holding himself up by Steve’s biceps and letting his gaze wander all over Steve’s exposed chest and stomach and arms.

“He realized that he wants to make this last,” Steve responded. “Can I touch your ass, sweetie?”

Bucky giggled in spite of himself at the contrast between the sweetness of the first sentence and the lewdness of the latter. “Lemme just take my glasses off, okay?” Bucky mumbled, clambering off of Steve and putting his glasses on the dresser.

“Come back,” Steve whined, his eyes locked on Bucky’s ass.

“I’ve been gone for literally one second,” Bucky teased, arching his back just the slightest bit to get a rise out of Steve.

“One second too long.” Steve’s voice was whiny, and it would have been funny if it wasn’t so hot.

Bucky didn’t know what it was exactly, but something about how desperately Steve wanted him right now, about the way Steve was acting like he’d die if Bucky didn’t come back that instant made Bucky so hard that it gave him a head rush.

“I thought we were taking it slow,” Bucky mumbled, purposely walking at a snail’s pace back to Steve.

“We are. Doesn’t mean I don’t need to be touching you every second.”

“That’s a double negative, Steve. Poor grammar won’t get you anywhere.”

“It might, since at least poor grammar didn’t promise to suck my dick and then leave to take off it’s glasses.”

“Would you rather you break them and me be blind forever?”

“You’re so dramatic,” Steve teased, making grabby hands at Bucky.

Bucky blushed as he finally reached Steve and let Steve manhandle him so they were lying on the bed, Bucky on his back and Steve on his side, their legs were slotted together and pretty much all of Steve’s weight on Bucky’s right side.

Steve was kissing him gentle and slow, Bucky’s hands grazing up Steve’s sides and Steve’s hands cupping Bucky’s jaw.

It was nice, being this close to Steve, but it was also painfully too little friction, since Bucky had no leverage to get to himself and ease the edge off a little bit. Bucky shoved himself up against Steve’s still-clothed thigh, but was pushed back down by Steve’s steady hand. “C’mon,” Bucky mumbled against Steve’s lips. “Give a guy a break. Can’t do slow forever.”

Steve broke apart to laugh and press soft kisses along Bucky’s jaw and cheeks. “Get out of your pants, then,” Steve said, gently biting at Bucky’s earlobe.

Bucky jerked up in surprise that Steve was relenting that easily, pushing himself into a sitting position, and looked up at Steve, who was on all fours but still crowded over Bucky. Bucky liked it like this; he could still lean up and kiss Steve if he wanted, but he could look down Steve’s impeccable body if he didn’t. Bucky wanted to do the former, to make Steve feel good, but took a moment for himself to do the latter. Steve was blushing lightly, the pink traveling almost all the way down to his navel, but Bucky couldn’t tell whether it was from exertion or horniness or something else entirely.

“Okay,” Steve said softly, leaning his weight on his left arm and letting his right trace around the waistband of Bucky’s jeans. Bucky’s shirt had ridden up half an inch, and Steve’s warm finger was brushing Bucky’s bare skin, rubbing through the hair on his belly and grazing all the way to the sides and around to the dimples on his back. “You want this, baby?”

Bucky didn’t know how to process everything he was feeling. Steve’s voice was husky and hot and right in his ear, and Steve’s fingers were touching right above his ass, pressing gently into the dimples there. Steve had grabbed his ass plenty of times through his pants, but this, even though it wasn’t quite low enough to be considered his ass, was overwhelmingly hot, especially when there were about to be no layers between them.

But, simultaneously, Bucky felt weird about being this exposed for Steve. He didn’t want to weird Steve out or something or make Steve regret this by being unappealing for Steve. Bucky didn’t know how he’d handle it if Steve just left and called the whole thing off. It hurt just thinking about it, and it made Bucky want to stop everything then and there, to keep Steve from doing it to him. That way, at least he’d be the one with agency.

“Buck? Talk to me, honey.” Steve’s voice was warm and rough and it already hurt to imagine what it would be like if Bucky never heard it like this again. Steve’s eyes were narrowed in concern, and it made Bucky want to pinch the skin of his bad arm with his fingernails in frustration that he couldn’t just fucking decide if he wanted this.

So Bucky deflected. “What about you? I said I wanted to suck your dick.”

Steve just rolled his eyes. “You first, Buck.”

Suddenly, Bucky felt worse about this, a bolt of pain crossing his shoulder like an omen. Every time they’d done anything, Steve had come first. Bucky had assumed, had known, that it was to make himself feel more comfortable; if Bucky had already seen Steve come apart, it wouldn’t be as scary when Bucky did it.

“This still okay?”

This was new. Steve wasn’t riding a post-orgasmic bliss; he was going to be fully aware, and see how stupid Bucky looked while he got his dick sucked. And then he’d leave, and the bed would be cold, and Bucky’s whole body would ache with regret and shame.

Bucky wanted to just push Steve off and tell him to forget it. If Bucky cut it off, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.

But Steve had told Bucky to trust him.

“Shirt on, but pants are good.” It was too business-like and wasn’t sexy and Bucky’s voice cracked at the end, but it didn’t matter, because Steve was suddenly there, surging forward and kissing Bucky, crushingly hard and closed-mouthed, and his hands were tugging at Bucky’s belt. Steve wasn’t going anywhere. He was right here, unbuckling Bucky’s belt and blowing his own bangs out of his face.

If Bucky’s shoulder hadn’t been hurting, Bucky probably would have stayed there, stock still with something between fear and anticipation, waiting for Steve to cover Bucky back up in horror. But his shoulder was aching, the pain reverberating through his chest and up his spine, not too intensely, but not quietly either. So Bucky leaned over to the head of the bed and grabbed a pillow and laid back on it, eyes shut tight. It was like Schrodinger’s blowjob; if Bucky didn’t look, didn’t see the disgust inevitably crawling up Steve’s face, then Steve’s reaction wasn’t really real.

Bucky kept waiting to hear something, to feel his pants being tugged down, or to just feel the cold air on one of his most sensitive places. But there was nothing. The weight on the bed hadn’t shifted, so Steve was still planted between Bucky’s legs, but, other than unbuckling Bucky’s belt, he hadn’t moved.

“Steve?” Bucky asked softly, cracking one eye open just a bit.

“I’m here. Are you okay?” Steve’s hand moved to wrap itself around Bucky’s thigh, not exactly close to his crotch, but not far either.

“I’m fine. Why?” Bucky didn’t understand; he’d given the okay earlier. Why hadn’t Steve kept going?

“The instant I touched your belt, you recoiled.” Steve’s voice was low, like it was resonating from the pit of his stomach instead of his larynx. He took a deep breath before continuing, “We can stop anytime, Buck. I’m not trying to pressure you.”

Bucky tried to speak, to explain, but just made a weird high-pitched whine instead. He swallowed and tried again, desperate for Steve to understand. “I just wanted a pillow. My shoulder was twisted weird,” Bucky explained, trying to keep things as close to the truth as possible without dumping everything on Steve all at once at a time where Bucky really didn’t want any more distractions; Bucky trusted Steve, but that didn’t mean Bucky wanted to burden him.

“You sure?” Steve asked, shifting his hand the barest eighth of an inch toward Bucky’s crotch.

The gentle touch overcame Bucky’s hesitancy; he was turned on beyond belief, and the sexiest man in the world, who Bucky happened to trust with something as delicate as this, wanted to suck his dick. Everything was okay. Steve trusted Bucky, Bucky just had to trust Steve.

“I’m sure. Please?”

Steve chuckled and leaned down, popping the button on Bucky’s jeans and pressing a soft whisper of a kiss on the newly-revealed skin. Bucky blushed; even if he wasn’t quite naked yet, it was overwhelming to be on display like this.

“Relax, honey,” Steve mumbled, his thumbs now pressing lightly on the strip of skin which was no longer quite stomach, but wasn’t exactly crotch yet, either. “You trust me?”

“I trust you,” Bucky replied without thinking. He took a deep breath, and twisted his fingers together on his chest while Steve dragged the zipper down. It felt like each tooth of the thing took twenty minutes at least, even though the whole thing was down way too fast for Bucky to properly comprehend it.

It was scary to be almost-exposed like this, and it was scary for Bucky to let Steve do this. But he also wanted it so, so bad, so bad that it ached like the worst stomachache he’d ever had, like he hadn’t breathed in twenty years and was about to come up for air. It was such a weird mix of want and fear and trust that Bucky couldn’t even put a name to every emotion: he just felt.

The closest he’d ever come to this was after his accident, after his medical discharge, when he was back stateside and stuck in a hospital room with his parents and a litany of over sympathetic medical professionals who told him he ought to be grateful he hadn’t lost the arm entirely. But those feelings had all been negative, and the majority of Bucky’s feelings now were overwhelmingly positive.

He had no words, no reference point for anything right then. He just felt the way Steve’s hands were rubbing careful circles onto his hipbones and Steve’s lips mouthing over the waistband of his boxers.

“Ready, baby?” Steve asked, looking up just enough to make eye contact with Bucky.

Bucky nodded; he was beyond words right then.

Steve seemed to sense this, not pressing any further, and slowly slid the fabric down so Bucky’s cock popped out; it was hard enough that it practically bobbed.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale at the air suddenly surrounding him in place of his boxers. Steve left Bucky’s boxers and jeans on, just tugging them down a little, which Bucky appreciated; he didn’t want to be that exposed. Bucky didn’t even have time to let himself get anxious with being all exposed like this because Steve was suddenly all over him, leaning over Bucky and pressing kisses to his lips, his cheeks, down his throat, his collarbones through the shirt, all while palming Bucky lightly.

“You’re gorgeous,” Steve mumbled into Bucky’s sternum before lifting himself off and positioning himself in front of Bucky’s cock and pressing a chaste kiss to the tip of it.

Bucky gasped; Steve’s lips were always soft and full, but it felt different down there. Everything was so sensitive, and Bucky had to tense his stomach muscles to keep from coming right then and there. Steve was sinking down, kissing down the underside and nuzzling into the junction of Bucky’s thighs, his tongue poking out every so often to touch at Bucky’s balls.

Bucky let out a soft whine. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried; Steve hadn’t even truly started, and Bucky was already on the edge.

“Taste good, too,” Steve whispered, pulling back, making eye contact with Bucky again, and laying his hands on Bucky’s thighs firmly. “Okay, ground rules: touch me and my hair as much as you’d like, but don’t hold me down, okay? Let me know when you’re gonna come, and it’s my choice if I spit or swallow. If you don’t like something, tell me. I want this to be good, baby. Is that all good?”

Steve’s voice still sounded kind, but with a firmness Bucky hadn’t anticipated. It made Bucky worry for a moment that Steve’d had a less-than-stellar experience with something like this, but he didn’t want to ruin anything by asking and making Steve upset. So Bucky just nodded and let himself feel as Steve sucked the tip into his mouth.

Bucky gasped, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the bedsheets. It was remarkably intense, so much so that Bucky felt like all the air had been punched out of his lungs. He’d barely been in Steve’s mouth for five whole seconds, and already he was reduced to nothing but whimpers and croaks.

Steve’s hand wrapped around the base, and Bucky had to physically bracket his hips to keep from thrusting up into Steve’s mouth and choking him. Bucky himself felt like he was choking himself, the air siphoned out of him through his fucking dick.

“Steve,” Bucky choked out in a strangled moan.

Steve hummed in answer around Bucky, and it made him sit up, ramrod straight with his arms twisted painfully behind him. His shoulder was screaming for Bucky to move, but it was being drowned out by the white noise that was Steve’s mouth.

Bucky hadn’t been loud in bed since he’d served; there was a lot to be said for being able to jerk off quickly and quietly while in the army. But he couldn’t help himself right now.

He was squeaking and contorting his back into an arch so intense that he knew he’d be sore for hours, if not days, afterward. “Holy Christ, Steve. Oh, my god.” Bucky’s brain was mush, all of his higher processing turned off. The only things online were the nerve endings to his cock and his hearing, tuned in solely to the obscene slurping sounds Steve was making as he lowered his head, sucking Bucky deeper and letting the tip hit his own soft palate.

Steve’s hand around the base was starting to twist, and he was sucking firmly, and Bucky let out an animalistic noise three quarters of the way to a howl.

“Is this even legal?” Bucky panted. It shouldn’t have been, since it was going to kill Bucky right here. He bit his lip and arched his back, doing everything short of aggravating his bad shoulder so he could to make himself last longer, to make this last longer, but he couldn’t. He was gonna die if he didn’t come right then and there.

“Steve!” Bucky’s voice was shaking and his hands were reaching down to clutch at Steve’s biceps. “I’m gonna, I-”

Bucky cut himself off with a weird, alien gargling as he came. It was probably too soon to be sexy, and he hadn’t given enough of a warning, but he couldn’t help it. It was like he was in free fall, the bottom of his stomach dropping out and the top of his head somewhere high in the atmosphere. He couldn’t care even if he wanted to.

Bucky landed on his back with a thud, thanking his past self for getting a pillow so he didn’t hurt his head. Everything about him felt strung out and loose and torn, like he was a wet sheet of paper and Steve had just punched through it.

Steve could punch through him whenever Steve wanted. Bucky wanted him right then, more than he wanted air, more than he wanted his shoulder to stop hurting.

He felt a gentle press on his thighs, and Steve’s lips, soft as ever, brushing his earlobe, but he didn’t feel Steve’s huge arms bracketing him and he didn’t feel Steve’s lips actually press on his own. Steve was gone.

“Steve?” Bucky asked softly, despite knowing that he was alone.

Even though the bed near Bucky’s legs was still warm, there was no longer real warmth between his thighs, and his underwear had hastily been tugged back up. Steve was gone. Bucky hadn’t given enough of a warning before he’d come and Steve had gotten upset and left. God, Bucky missed him. He hadn’t even been gone for thirty seconds and already it felt too painful to bear. Bucky threw his arms over his eyes. He didn’t want to cry about this; he’d known it was coming, after all, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered to the empty air. He hadn’t meant to fuck up like that, but it was like an out-of-body experience; he just couldn’t control himself. It was incredible how quickly he’d gone from boneless and blissed-out to on the verge of tears.

“What’re you sorry for, sweetheart?”

Bucky’s arms flew off of his eyes, and he scrambled to sit up. Steve was leaning against the door to the bathroom, toweling off his hands with Bucky’s pink washcloth.

“Steve!” Bucky couldn’t help yelling it. Steve was here, even though Bucky hadn’t truly warned him before coming. It was good enough that Bucky had to scrub at his eyes again to keep tears, now of relief, from seeping out.

“Hi, honey. Everything okay?” Steve’s voice was concerned, and sweet, and slightly husky, and Bucky could’ve come again just because of that.

“Steve,” Bucky said again. It was like he was incapable of saying anything else. He’d been in post-orgasm with Steve before, but every other time he’d had some semblance of control over himself. Bucky had nothing right now. It was like he was a ragdoll, only capable of moving, of existing, because Steve was here.

“That’s me,” Steve said, crossing the room and hauling Bucky up so Bucky was on his knees on the bed and Steve could hug him.

Bucky tucked his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, rubbing his hands up and down Steve’s still-bare back. “Steve,” Bucky repeated, but it was closer to a sob this time. There were no tears streaming down Bucky’s face, nor were there any anywhere close anymore, but still, Bucky’s voice was so choked that it came out as a sob.

Steve shushed Bucky and hugged him tighter, if that was possible. “Talk to me, honey. What’s going on?”

“Thought you’d left,” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s shoulder. He was probably drooling on it, but he couldn’t stop himself. He already looked so undignified, with his pants hanging open down his thighs and his hair a mess and his skin all sweaty, that drooling didn’t seem to matter.

“Oh, baby,” Steve murmured, letting one hand drift from Bucky’s waist to the back of head, threading the fingers through Bucky’s hair. “I didn’t leave, honey. I just wanted some water. I should’ve told you where I was going. I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky replied hurriedly, because it was. Steve was back now, and that was all that mattered.

“Let’s lie down, Buck. You worked yourself pretty hard back there.”

Bucky blushed at the memory, but let Steve manhandle him so he was laying on the one pillow still by the headrest.

“Be right there,” Steve told him, kissing Bucky’s forehead once before sliding off his jeans and showing off his maroon boxers. He was still half-hard, and it made something foreign clench in Bucky’s gut.

“Wait, lemme suck you off,” Bucky mumbled, picking himself up and scooting toward Steve, but Steve stopped him with a gentle hand on Bucky’s right shoulder.

“Later, baby. We have plenty of time.” Steve was still smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wasn’t happy about this.

“Steve, please, it’s okay,” Bucky said, trying to lean in for a kiss.

“Bucky, sweetheart, lie down for me, okay? We’ll do this later.”

Bucky didn’t understand. He had asked Steve to make feel Steve feel good when they had started this whole thing, but Steve hadn’t even gotten off and was already putting a stop to this. He probably was disgusted, but just didn’t want to hurt Bucky’s feelings. Bucky wanted to protest, to get Steve in his mouth, but Steve didn’t want that, and Bucky had to respect that, so he obediently shucked off his jeans so he could be comfortable and laid down under the covers, his head on the pillow. “Promise?” Bucky asked plaintively.

Steve chuckled and slid in next to Bucky, on his right side. Bucky lifted himself up a little bit so he could lay on Steve’s chest, the idea of breaking contact with Steve to sit up and grab the other pillow from where it was strewn on the bed horrifying to him.

“Promise,” Steve reassured, stroking Bucky’s hair.

Bucky wasn’t exactly tired, but he was perfectly content to lay there and just be close to Steve. Steve’s heartbeat was thudding steadily under Bucky’s cheek like the most perfect metronome in the world. Steve was here, solid and real and taking care of Bucky. Steve wouldn’t leave without at least warning Bucky. Bucky trusted Steve not to.

But that didn’t change the fact that those few seconds had felt worse than every time his shoulder had hurt put together.

“I missed you,” Bucky whispered mostly to himself, slinging an arm over Steve’s middle and squeezing.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” Steve mumbled, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head.

Bucky wanted to argue, to tell Steve he had nothing to be sorry about, since getting water was a perfectly reasonable thing to do without telling anyone and Bucky had just been too strung out to understand that, but no words were adequate. Bucky gave up trying to find them and instead pitched his head forward and kissed Steve’s sternum and squeezed Steve’s flank again.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered again.

Bucky glanced up at Steve. His face looked pained, and sad, and almost haggard, if it was possible for someone that handsome to look haggard.

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispered, lacking anything more eloquent. “I still trust you, Steve. You’re okay.”

Bucky nuzzled back into Steve’s chest and tried to ignore the obvious tension riddling Steve’s muscles. Steve was here, solid and real and perfect, and Bucky was never going to let him go.

Steve’s hand gripped Bucky’s hair tight, and Bucky felt Steve relax underneath him.

Steve was here. It was all okay. Steve trusted Bucky, and Bucky trusted Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! It means the world!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short! The original chapter was 15k+, so I wanted to break it up a little bit and this was the most natural point to do so. Enjoy!

“This looks fine,” Bucky mumbled, shoving his hair out of his face.

He’d forgotten a hair tie that day since his alarm hadn’t gone off and he’d been in a rush, so, of course, his hair had chosen that day to be frizzy and in his face and frustrating. It kept getting in his eyes and the shorter strands were sticking straight up; it made Bucky want to kill someone, or, more likely, just his barber. To make matters worse, he was having a bad fucking day with his shoulder. He had been holding his left arm close to himself, defensive, the whole day, to avoid anyone accidentally making contact with it and forcing the muscles to work, which would make the pain worse. It had been working decently, but now Pepper was showing him a scene in some stuffy, overly humid conference room and he had to take notes and it was hell.

The fine motor control alone was difficult, since his whole arm was shaking slightly and messing up his lettering. But the fact that he was having to actually use the muscles needed to press a pen to the page and swipe his hair out of his face was near impossible. It was bullshit that he had to be part of the stupid ten goddamned percent of the entire fucking population who was forced to write with their left hand, especially now, when his pen’s ink was smearing on his hand, making it itch, and his whole arm was begging him to put the pen down.

He’d barely written down three bullet points, none of them specific enough to be helpful, or even fucking legible. Bucky wanted to punch a goddamn wall with frustration, but his right arm was too weak to do anything close to satisfying and his left was obviously out of the equation. But there were at least three historical inaccuracies with the goddamn uniforms, and Bucky had to write them down or he’d forget them; remembering anything, much less minute details, was already a chore with how much of his focus was being diverted toward his arm. Plus, there were at least four more minutes left in the clip that Pepper was showing him, and if there were any more inaccuracies other than the ones he’d already written down, he’d need to remember those, too. 

“Bucky?” Pepper’s gentle voice cut through Bucky’s frustration, and Bucky glanced up, angrily twisting a stray lock of hair away from his face. He was literally thirty seconds away from grabbing the scissors neatly placed in the pencil holder and chopping it off.

Plus, it was a Tuesday, so Bucky just wanted to fucking finish his work and go make out with Steve and maybe suck his dick if his arm ever stopped hurting like a motherfucker, but Bucky was stuck here instead,with his fucking arm and fucking hair and shitty life.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like work, because he did. He just didn’t like trying to fucking think and check continuity when his arm was shaking and his hair was all sweaty and in his face and Steve’s gorgeous fucking ass was in every other goddamn shot, like it was taunting Bucky for not sucking Steve off yet. He’d tried, he really had, but every single fucking time Steve had politely shot him down with a sweet smile and a promise of: “Later, baby. I’m too tired right now.” Sometimes, Bucky wouldn’t even get that, just an excuse, like: “It’s too late. I’d wake the neighbors,” or some other vague statement about why then was never the right time.

Of course, it was Steve’s body and Steve’s choice, but that didn’t mean that Bucky understood it. If Steve didn’t like Bucky, then fine. It would be awful and Bucky probably would be holed up in blankets and sadness for weeks after he found out, but, still, fine, at least he’d know. But, instead, Steve was just sending Bucky mixed signals. Steve had always let Bucky give him a handjob when Bucky had asked, but, since he’d sucked Bucky off, he’d stopped letting Bucky even do that. And he kept sucking Bucky off and kissing him and doing everything else perfectly normally. And, without fail, Steve was hard whenever they did anything more than kissing. Bucky didn’t get it. What had he done to repulse Steve to the point that Steve couldn’t even tolerate Bucky giving him a handjob?

Bucky wanted to ask Steve, but, if he did, Steve would either blow him off or, worse, just tell him the truth: that Steve never wanted to speak to Bucky again and had just wanted to let Bucky down easy and hadn’t known how to. Bucky just wanted to make Steve feel good, to see what Steve would taste like, how he would come apart, but Bucky just couldn’t. It was frustrating more than anything, and just added to Bucky’s preexisting frustration due to his hatred of his arm and his fucking hair.

Pepper leaned over and slammed shut the laptop the clip was playing on, startling Bucky just a bit. “Your arm’s shaking. Everything okay?” Pepper’s voice was laced with kindness and concern, and, even if didn’t calm Bucky down very much, did manage to distract him from thinking about Steve.

“Fine,” Bucky muttered, placing the pen down with the most grace he could manage, which wasn’t very fucking much.

Pepper was clearly unconvinced; she pursed her lips and sat down in the chair across from Bucky, crossing her legs at the knee and leaning her chin in her hand. “Bucky,” Pepper pressed again, stretching one perfectly manicured hand across the table and squeezing Bucky’s left hand gently. Her hand was cool and soft, but the grip was the exact opposite, tight and motherly and calming. “What’s up?”

“I’m just trying to finish this scene,” Bucky explained slowly, since it should have been obvious.

“Bucky, you’re literally shaking. What’s going on?”

Bucky shrugged. He had no words to explain to Pepper that he was literally broken, and she didn’t know the half of it. He didn’t have to the words to tell her that he deserved a fucking Academy Award for not crying out in pain right now and acting mostly fine.

Pepper sighed at Bucky’s non-response and pulled out her tablet and started clicking around on it, blatantly ignoring Bucky. Not that Bucky particularly minded that; it gave him a moment to let out the breath he’d been holding and to move his arm in slow circles to try and ease some of the stiffness out.

“So, I need three more scenes quality controlled by Thursday. If you can stay for an extra half hour tomorrow, you can take the rest of the day off.”

“Pepper, you can’t do that,” Bucky immediately argued. “That’s not fair to you.”

“We can last an afternoon without you, Bucky. You’ve been here since seven in the morning, anyway. I don’t even get here till nine.”

Bucky did fucking want to go home. Watch a movie, eat junk food, maybe take a nap or something. It sounded perfect. But that would be taking advantage of Pepper, and everyone else who were working their asses off on this movie. No one else got to go home just because their arm hurt and they were pissed off about not getting to suck their boyfriend’s dick.

“Pepper, I really appreciate it, but I shouldn’t get special treatment.”

“Bucky, you’ve come in early every day since I’ve hired you; you’re working pretty fucking hard and haven’t complained once. It’s not special treatment for me to make you take a day off,” Pepper said kindly.

Pepper was being an absolute angel, but Bucky couldn’t listen to her. He was already forcing her to rework the entire post-production schedule so he could approve things from New York instead of staying in LA like he should; he couldn’t make her go even more out of her way for him.

Bucky leaned back and forced a smile, but he knew it looked like more of a grimace. “That’s incredibly kind of you, Pepper, but I’m okay.”

Bucky leaned forward to reopen the laptop, but Pepper’s hand pressed flat on it, keeping it firmly shut while rolling her eyes. “Bucky, go home. Your handwriting is too shaky to be legible, anyway, so you’re not even being helpful by staying here. Take a day.”

“Thank you, Pepper, but, really, I’m fine.” Bucky tried to sound convincing, but the way he had leaned to open the laptop had twisted his shoulder and bolts of pain were shooting all over his torso, lancing down his arm and up his neck in a burning, twisting, melting web of pain, so much so that his voice shook as he spoke.

“Bucky, get out of here, or you’re fired,” Pepper said firmly, pulling her hand off the laptop and blowing her bangs out of her eyes.

Bucky laughed, assuming that she was teasing, but there wasn’t any laughter in her eyes, only concern.

“Pe-”

“I’m gonna give Steve the day off too, actually.”

That made Bucky release a gross choking noise that had nothing to do with his fucking shoulder. Steve and Bucky hadn’t breathed a word of their dating to anybody. They barely even touched in public; the only indication Bucky got that Steve wasn’t more than a friend when they were out together is the way that if they accidentally bumped, Steve would let the contact burn for maybe an eighth of a second longer than necessary before moving again. How in the fuck could Pepper know that they were dating?

Bucky trusted Pepper, he did, but what if she accidentally slipped to the wrong person? Steve’s career would be ruined, and it would be all Bucky’s fault, because Steve had been caught with him.

He’d talked to Danvers about this, about dating someone he shouldn’t and the guilt he felt, and Danvers had always said that it took two to tango, but that wasn’t true here. Sure, Steve was choosing to hang out with Bucky, but any leak of their relationship and, therefore, Steve’s sexuality, would hurt only Steve, since everyone who knew Bucky knew his proclivity toward gentle bears. That meant that if the world (and it would be the whole world, since everyone and their mother had fantasized about Steve Rogers at least once, even if in passing) found out about them, Steve would be hurt and Bucky wouldn’t. Bucky would go unscathed, leaving the best guy in the whole universe hung out to dry. That made it Bucky’s fault, because it would be incriminating photos of Steve and Bucky that would ruin Steve’s whole life, and Bucky wouldn’t face any negative repercussions for it.

If Bucky had been smart, he would have never done anything with Steve in the first place, thus protecting Steve. But Bucky had done something, and had even had the gall to have been cavalier about the idea that if they ever became serious enough to be public, Steve’s career as a leading man would be crushed. Bucky hadn’t had Steve’s best interests at heart, and now Pepper knew and it was all Bucky’s fault.

“Why Steve?” Bucky choked, doing his best to sound nonchalant and not show his hand in case Pepper had said Steve’s name randomly. However, the chances of that were stupidly low, seeing as Steve was the lead of the entire project and Pepper wouldn’t give Steve a day off with Bucky just for fun. It didn’t make sense for it to be random, so Bucky braced himself for Pepper to tell him how she’d caught them kissing or something.

But that confession never came. “I know he’s your closest friend since moving, so you should hang out if you have a day off. I don’t want you getting lonely,” Pepper said simply, standing back up and typing something on her tablet.

Bucky looked at her, desperately searching for any knowledge of the face that his and Steve’s relationship was beyond friendly, but Pepper’s expression remained pleasant and blank.

“I can’t ask you to do that. Steve’s the lead, you need him for scenes and stuff.”

Pepper put a gentle hand on Bucky’s right shoulder. “He can have one afternoon off. Now, scram, before I have to fire you.”

“Pepper,” Bucky tried again, even as he stood up and grabbed his bag.

“Bucky,” Pepper replied in a bad imitation of Bucky’s voice, turning to face him. “Go home. Don’t even wait for your driver; I’ll make sure Steve takes you home.”

Bucky wanted to continue to fight; he couldn’t just take advantage of Pepper like this. But his shoulder was aching and his jaw was sore from gritting his teeth against the pain and going home and watching Star Wars or something with Eustace sounded really, really nice. So Bucky protested only two more times before letting Pepper escort him toward Steve, who was sitting by craft service drinking a disgustingly green smoothie.

“Hey, Steve,” Pepper said brightly, wrapping Steve in a hug. 

“Hey,” Steve said brightly as Pepper pulled back. “Don’t yell at me, I’m gonna head to makeup in just a sec, promise. I just wanted to grab a quick bite.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m gonna give you the rest of the day off so you can take Bucky home.”

Steve smiled at Bucky before turning back to Pepper as her words sunk in. “Take Bucky home? Is everything okay?” Steve asked. His voice was laced with real concern, his eyes flicking over Bucky like he expected a limb to be missing or something. Not that he was that far off from the truth. “Bucky?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky said quickly, shaking his head like that would make it somehow more convincing. “Pepper’s a worrywart.”

“A worrywart? Since when were you a grandma?” Steve was teasing, but his smile didn’t quite meet his eyes; he was still scanning Bucky over carefully, his eyes lingering on Bucky’s still-trembling hand before moving back up to his face.

“Since my Timmy was born. Do you wanna see a picture? He’s in kindergarten now. They grow up so fast.” Bucky was speaking too fast, blowing his cover of casually being forced to go home, which wasn’t much of a cover, anyway, but he was hurting too much to slow down or to try to come up with an actual reason for Pepper sending him home.

“You’re a dork. Pepper, is Bucky actually okay?” Steve said smoothly, turning his attention away from Bucky momentarily.

Bucky gratefully took the moment to squeeze his own hand in a poor attempt to stop the shaking. It hadn’t spasmed like this since he’d moved to LA; Bucky had been pinning it on the lack of humidity. Spasming was the worst, since it moved everything and made it hurt worse, which just made it spasm more. It was a vicious cycle. The last time it’d happened, Bucky had just canceled his class for the day, the first time he’d done so since getting hired.

Bucky just wanted to go home. He wanted to Steve to be there too, warm and solid and comforting. But if Steve was there, Bucky would have to be guarded about his shoulder, and that was even more exhausting than the spasms. He just wanted Steve to know, and to accept and want Bucky anyway, without having to be told. Bucky just wanted to fast forward six months, when Steve had come to terms with Bucky’s shoulder and knew how to take care of it.

That is, if Steve still wanted Bucky then. Because by then, Bucky would be back in New York and Steve would still be here. And, beyond that, Steve would probably be repulsed by how fucked up Bucky was and leave Bucky to die, anyway.

“Bucky’s fine,” Pepper said, knocking Bucky out of his anxious reverie. “He just deserves a day off, and so do you.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked, but Bucky knew it was just to be polite, because Steve’s eyes were all over Bucky, on his lips and jaw, yet always coming back to focus on his hand. Beyond worrying, though, Steve’s eyes were excited. Steve was excited to just spend a day with Bucky, and that made Bucky’s heart flutter a little bit.

“Yes,” Pepper sighed, exasperated. “You two are too fucking selfless. Go home!” With that, she turned on her heel and vanished back into the mess of people editing a few clips.

“Um, hi, I guess,” Steve said, smiling at Bucky.

“Hi,” Bucky sighed back.

“What’s going on? Pepper seemed real eager to get rid of you. Were you tormenting her?” Steve was laughing a little bit, but his smile wasn’t quite reaching his eyes.

“Always. Pulling her pigtails and everything.” Bucky was trying to be lighthearted, but there was another strand of hair in his face and his shoulder was seizing again. He needed to fucking lie down with some painkillers and a chamomile tea.

“The full monty.” Steve said, appearing not to notice how fucking pissed off and exhausted Bucky knew he looked. Even if Steve was just pretending, Bucky still appreciated it. Steve tossed his smoothie cup in the trash and went around to Bucky’s side, squeezing his right shoulder tightly, which made his ignorance less and less likely; he wouldn’t give Bucky contact comfort like this unless he was legitimately concerned. “But, seriously, what’s up?”

Bucky looked down at his feet so Steve might not be able to tell how badly Bucky wanted to avoid this topic of conversation.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Buck. Promise everything’s good, though?” Steve’s eyes darted to Bucky’s left hand again, and Bucky closed his right over it to try and hide it. It was a shitty attempt, but Steve stopped looking at it, so Bucky counted it as a win.

“Promise,” Bucky said firmly.

“You’re not gonna keel over and die in the parking lot?” Steve asked, walking toward the doors that lead out of the lot.

That prompted a real laugh from Bucky. Steve’s stupid humor was helping him feel just a little bit better, and Bucky appreciated that even more than Steve pretending not to notice his fucked up shoulder.

“Probably not, but I make no promises,” Bucky called half-heartedly, following Steve out into the bright sunshine. Bucky hated the sun right then, too, for glaring into his eyes and probably giving him a headache. He missed cloudy days in his apartment in New York. He missed his soft quilt that he would wrap himself in on bad pain days like today. He missed not having pain, and just being able to be normal and be shirtless every once in a while.

“You know, if you did die, at least you’d have a set Halloween costume,” Steve teased, distracting Bucky from his futile anger as they found Steve’s car.

“You’re right. Dying now would be a stroke of genius on my part.” Bucky mostly meant it as a joke, but his shoulder hurt so bad that he wouldn’t mind just keeling over and not having to deal with it anymore.

Steve stopped short, pausing the process of digging his keys out of his pockets, and looked at Bucky, frowning. “You’re just kidding, right, honey? ‘Cause, legally, you’re not allowed to die.”

“I’m just kidding,” Bucky said quickly, making eye contact with Steve so Steve would know that he wasn’t lying.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good.” Steve took a half-step forward and pecked Bucky on the nose, so quick that no one would even notice, would just think that they had just blinked funny or something. “And, legally, you can die, but in my rules you can’t,” Steve added.

“Since when did you make the rules?” Bucky teased, trying to lighten the mood despite the talons of pain that were digging into his back.

“Since I became president of Steve-land,” Steve replied firmly, smiling at Bucky for real.

“You’re no president. You just play one on TV.”

The little smile Steve gave in response to Bucky’s shitty joke almost made the pain in his shoulder feel like it was dissipating. Almost.

Steve just did that for Bucky. Eased his aches and calmed him down and made him feel safe. Even if Steve confused the hell out of Bucky sometimes, being with Steve was always just easy, like two puzzle pieces clicking together without any conscious thought put into it. Steve was kind and safe, in addition to being literally perfect. Bucky was so lucky.

“Maybe I don’t make rules, but I’m just looking out for you. Logistically, if you did die, you’d have to pay for a hearse to get you to any Halloween parties. It’d be too much of a hassle,” Steve said, stepping away from Bucky and unlocking the car so he could hop in.

Bucky slid in after him, putting on his seatbelt and surreptitiously watching Steve’s muscles flex while he bundled up the chrome-colored sun shield.

“Might be cheaper just to put my dead body on display. You know, in a haunted house or something.” Bucky cradled his hand as he spoke, trying to rub out the stiffness that came from intentionally holding his muscles still for an extended period of time.

“Christ, you’re morbid,” Steve giggled, turning the car on and pulling out of the parking lot. “My place or yours, baby?”

Bucky blushed at the pet name and stared down at his hands. “Mine, please. Also, you started it.”

“Morbid and mature. My favorite.”

If Bucky hadn’t been in so much pain, he probably would have swatted Steve on the arm for that. But he was, so he just rolled his eyes and tried to focus on Madonna’s not-exactly soothing voice.

“What are you doing for Halloween, though?” Steve’s face was a mask of calm, but Bucky could see the corners of his mouth pricking up.

“Besides being a haunted house corpse? Just gonna hand out candy, I guess. What about you?”

“I’m having a party, which I’d love for you to come to, if you want.”

Bucky wanted to go. Barring that one fucking frat party at NYU, he’d never been to an actual Halloween party, especially one that would probably have good booze. But Halloween was weird. Everyone was in a sexy costume, and everyone would probably be drunk. That didn’t exactly sound like Bucky’s scene.

“Who else is gonna be there?” Bucky asked, in lieu of telling Steve that he was kind of uncomfortable with the idea of going.

“Sam, Nat, Clint. It’s not gonna be too big, only twenty or so people. It’s not, like, a frat party if that’s what you’re worried about,” Steve reassured gently, taking his hand off the wheel to squeeze Bucky’s knee before retracting it.

“Is it a costume party?”

“Well, duh. It’s Halloween. I promise you’ll have fun, though, even if your costume’s lame.”

“Who said anything about a lame costume?” Bucky argued, swiping yet another fucking lock of hair out of his face.

“Is that a yes, then?”

Bucky did like the idea of hanging out with Steve, even if the party wasn’t his scene. Besides, it was Steve’s party, and Bucky had had fun on the Fourth of July. Bucky would probably take any opportunity to hang out with Steve, after all.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Bucky felt like he was going to melt into the floor and die. As it was, his knees were shaking beneath his cloak and he was having to clench and unclench his fists to keep himself from wilting at Steve’s feet.

It wasn’t Bucky’s fault that he felt like this; he hadn’t had any time to prepare. He’d begged for Steve to tell him what he was dressing as for Halloween, but Steve had insisted that it should be a surprise. And holy fuck, was it.

Steve was dressed as a boxer, which, in abstract, seemed innocuous enough. The way Steve was fucking doing it, though, decidedly wasn’t. He was in a flimsy red satin robe trimmed in black, which was open and exposing his broad chest and the flat planes of his stomach and, Christ, his shoulders. His legs weren’t covered up much more, clad in black satin shorts that were two inches away from qualifying as booty shorts. The only way Bucky was even able to tell that Steve was dressed as a boxer and not some high-class prostitute were the black tennis shoes on his feet and the black tape he had wrapped around his knuckles.

“Hi, honey,” Steve said, like it was all casual and normal and fine. Which it decidedly wasn’t. Because Steve had just swung open his front door and he was practically fucking naked and this Halloween party was supposed to have other people at it, so Bucky couldn’t just drag Steve upstairs and jump his bones.

In lieu of a greeting, Bucky just let out a tiny noise akin to a balloon being poked with a needle while a small child sobbed nearby.

“You look gorgeous, Buck.” Steve’s voice was steady and warm as he ducked down to hug Bucky, probably pretending not to hear Bucky’s squeal.

Even though the hug was nice and Steve smelled like soap and pine, Bucky still felt like he was going to die. No human should have been able to look that good in a stupid robe and shorts. Bucky sighed into Steve’s hug, putting his arms around Steve’s waist and closing his eyes, just letting his chest press against Steve’s and his head rest on Steve’s shoulder.

Bucky’d thought he’d looked good, but it was nothing compared to Steve. While he had thought he’d looked great by brushing his hair so it was all soft and smooth and shiny and letting his stubble was grow out just past a five o’clock shadow, Steve was the epitome of sex and hotness and every one of Bucky’s fanatasies, just by putting on a stupid robe. It was fucking ludicrous.

Steve pulled back from the hug, which just allowed Bucky to stare at him more, but Bucky wasn’t complaining.

“You’re incredible,” Bucky mumbled, looking up at Steve. Steve was smiling softly, a light blush brushing over his nose. It was so hot and overwhelming that Bucky could barely breathe. The juxtaposition of Steve’s stupidly incredible, exposed body and schoolboy blush was just doing it for Bucky.

“Thanks, baby. Do you want to come in?”

Honestly, Bucky didn’t. He was suddenly hot and sweaty and turned on and he honestly needed a minute to adjust himself in his pants. Bucky’s brain was mush. He wanted to climb Steve like a fucking tree and never let go. He wanted to faint. Mostly, he wanted to be alone with Steve. But Steve’s house was full of people dancing and drinking and watching horror movies, so that wasn’t exactly an option.

So Bucky just nodded and followed Steve into the house. There were about two dozen or so people, sprawled on couches, all drinking and laughing. Bucky saw Sam and Natasha and Clint in the corner talking, and a few other people he recognized from Steve’s birthday party, but everyone else was a stranger. That was simultaneously reassuring because it meant almost no one would see how fucking sweaty and awkward Bucky was acting (not that he was particularly suave in the first place), and horrifying because when Steve went to talk to one of his friends, Bucky would either have to follow him around like a lost puppy or just stand awkwardly to the side. Of course, he could engage someone in conversation, but with Steve looking like that, Bucky could not foresee himself being able to make any conversation, let alone one with a semblance of intelligence.

“Are you hungry? We ordered some pizza.” Steve put one hand lightly on the small of Bucky’s back and Bucky let out a tiny startled squeak.

Steve must have heard, because he was laughing as he swung the kitchen door open and leaned down to kiss Bucky’s temple. “Everything okay?” Steve teased, turning and putting his hands firmly on Bucky’s waist. Bucky was by no means small, but Steve’s hands were so huge that it felt like they could span his whole waist; it made Bucky feel sweet and pliable and, because they were Steve’s hands, comfortable, despite how fucking turned on he was.

Bucky swallowed, his throat dry. “Yeah. Better than okay. I -- um, you are just . . . wow.”

Gee, Barnes, Bucky thought angrily to himself, how’s that college degree working for you? Bucky wanted to sink into the floorboards. He literally couldn’t find fucking words. It was so stupid. Steve just looked hot. When didn’t he? More to the point, why did it matter so much? It was Halloween; everyone dressed sluttily and drank too much. Steve looking hot shouldn’t matter, since everyone else did, anyway.

But it did matter. Because this was Steve. Steve, who was blushing and leaning over Bucky to kiss his hair. Steve, whose warmth was radiating out and soaking over Bucky, making him feel almost feverish. Steve, whom Bucky trusted wholeheartedly.

“I’m glad you think so, honey. Is the shirtless thing overkill? ‘Cause I was kinda worried. . . .” Steve trailed off when Bucky rolled his eyes. Turned on as he was, Bucky could take a fucking hint.

“You look perfect,” Bucky sighed, watching Steve’s lips curl into a smile.

“What was that?” Steve teased, putting his index finger under Bucky’s chin and gently tugging it up.

“I said you’re perfect,” Bucky stated, blushing like mad but holding eye contact.

“Couldn’t hear you still. Gotta use better diction.”

“Gotta get you a hearing aid,” Bucky replied, his mind finally catching back up to his already worked-over body.

Steve laughed at that, tossing his head back and making Bucky blush. Even as he laughed, Steve’s hands never left Bucky’s waist. It was like a tether. Bucky wanted him so bad in that moment, wanted to push him over the couch and just make out with him until their tongues were sore. But then there was a chorus of laughter from the living room and Bucky remembered himself; he was one of many guests, and he couldn’t bother Steve like that right now. But later. Later was good.

“So,” Steve began, leaning down to peck Bucky’s lips before pulling back completely and turning toward the counter which was covered in liquor bottles and pizza boxes. “Tell me about your costume, baby.”

Bucky smiled and tugged at the sleeves of his cloak. “I’m Ajunta Pall. He was the first Sith.” He knew it was dorky, and it made him blush a little bit. Everyone was supposed to be all sexy on Halloween, and he was dressed like the nerdiest thing ever, probably. But Steve seemed to like it, smiling at Bucky and looking him up and down.

“Is that the famous Jedi robe?” Steve teased as he poured himself a Solo cup of Jack Daniels.

Bucky felt his face heat up in embarrassment, but Steve’s tone was too fond to possess a trace of malice in it. Steve wasn’t being mean; he was being affectionate. The realization made Bucky feel like he was a can of diet Coke that someone had just shaken up and let loose; bubbly and hot and sticky. “More like infamous. And yes,” Bucky said through a broad smile.

“I thought Siths dressed darker,” Steve commented, taking a sip of his drink. Bucky watched his throat work as he swallowed and it made Bucky feel even hotter.

“Pall was a Jedi master before he was a Sith,” Bucky explained in the same passionate, yet professional voice that he would use to lecture about the July Crisis, just to tease Steve. “He didn’t have the fashion down yet.”

Steve laughed at Bucky’s stupid non-joke and shook his head good-naturedly. “Fair. Want anything to drink?”

“Just a beer, please.” Too much alcohol didn’t go well with Bucky’s pain meds, and beer was probably the lowest-proof thing he could drink without someone giving him a weird glance. It was also smart because Bucky could have more than one drink if he wanted, since he could have three or four beers and get the same effect as one shot.

“Do you care what kind?”

Bucky shook his head. He’d never really had much of a preference, since he’d turned 21 while serving, which didn’t afford many opportunities to be choosy about what you were drinking, and had been too broke to be picky after being discharged.

Steve grabbed a beer from the fridge opened it for Bucky, pretending to be all chivalrous about it. Bucky took the opportunity to watch the muscles in Steve’s back work languidly through the thin robe. He looked absolutely gorgeous, and, while still making Bucky feel too hot all over, welcoming. Bucky just wanted to step into his arms and never leave.

Steve passed Bucky the beer, lurching with obvious purpose so their knuckles would bump together. The contact burned for a minute or two longer than necessary before Steve retracted his hand and made his way to the door.

Bucky followed him like a lost puppy, winding up on the couch next to Steve, their sides pressed together. Steve was talking to a person on the other side of him about some film festival or something. A horror movie, one of the Saw ones, played on the TV, but everyone was just ignoring it and chatting. Bucky was perfectly content to just feel Steve’s warmth against him and watch the movie as he nursed a beer, though. He was too turned on to be able to make good conversation, anyway.

Maybe an hour later, the beer had run through Bucky’s body, and he shifted uncomfortably, caught between needing to piss and not wanting to break contact with Steve for a single moment. It was relaxing and perfect and calming and Bucky never wanted to leave, even though his ass was sore from sitting in a way that would ensure maximum contact between him and Steve and he really did have to piss.

After a quick deliberation, the need to pee won out and Bucky shoved himself up, mumbling about having to pee, and made his way through a few throngs of people to the bathroom. He tried the door, but it was locked.

He could go and use the one attached to Steve’s bedroom; he still remembered the way and everything. That might have been intrusive, though, or a violation of privacy. Of course, Bucky had been up there already, but that was Steve inviting him there. It wasn’t like Bucky had an explicit standing invitation.

But he did really need to pee, so he glanced quickly at Steve, who was still absorbed in conversation with someone, before heading up the stairs and darting into Steve’s bathroom. Steve probably wouldn’t notice, anyway, since he was so engrossed in talking to people.

He locked the door behind him, and looked around quickly as he took off his cloak so he wouldn’t get piss on it. The bathroom looked pretty nondescript; clean white tile and a stone vanity. The only personality of Steve’s that Bucky could see was a sticky note stuck on the mirror reminding him to refill his asthma meds.

It was cute, and Bucky smiled at it while he unzipped himself. Steve had never told him he had asthma, but it stood to reason that someone that perfect had to have some sort of shortcoming. Not that it was really a shortcoming. Asthma was just a part of Steve, and, because it was part of Steve, it was inherently flawless.

Even though he’d only thought it, the idea of Steve being inherently flawless made Bucky’s gut churn with embarrassment. He was like a lovesick middle schooler, head over heels into Steve for doing nothing beyond existing near him. They hadn’t even discussed if they were even actually dating or not. Bucky needed to put the brakes on himself fast, before he said something weird and embarrassing.

As Bucky washed his hands, he noticed the soap had the same piney scent as Steve, and Bucky was almost immediately turned on again. He needed to get a fucking grip.

But that was fucking hard when he opened the door, about to head back down, and Steve was sitting on the bed facing the bathroom, leaning back on his arms and tapping his feet absently to the music playing from downstairs.

Bucky yelped nearly a foot in the air, his arms crossed over himself protectively.

“Woah, there, cowboy,” Steve said softly, sitting up and holding his hands out in front of him. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“Hey,” Bucky said, his voice only shaking a little bit from the adrenaline.

“Hi, honey,” Steve replied calmly, standing up and kissing Bucky’s temple, the touch soft and gentle like any little thing would startle Bucky again. “Are you okay?”

“Just startled,” Bucky gasped, leaning into Steve’s careful touch.

“What’re you doing up here?”

“I had to pee, but the bathroom downstairs was locked. I wasn’t trying to snoop or anything, I just needed to pee.” Bucky said quickly, embarrassed.

“That’s more than fine, baby.” Steve wrapped Bucky in a hug and kissed Bucky’s temple again. “Are you having fun? You’ve been all quiet.”

Bucky blushed. It wasn’t like he could admit to Steve that the reason he’d been sitting so still and quiet was that he’d been painfully hard just because of how gorgeous Steve was up until his bladder had made an appearance and he didn’t want anyone to notice. The hard-on was back again now, just from Steve hugging him and from Bucky smelling the soap in the bathroom.

He wondered if Steve got hard sometimes just from looking at Bucky, and hoped desperately that Steve was as attracted to him as he was to Steve. Bucky wanted to show Steve how much Bucky liked him. He’d told himself he’d wait till after the party, but he could always just ask now. They were in a relatively private place now, anyway.

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky asked, leaning his head forward so it could rest against Steve’s chest.

“Yeah?”

Bucky swallowed. He didn’t want to pressure Steve, or make him uncomfortable, but Bucky wanted him so bad. He was full of adrenaline all over again, not just the pure electric shock of the adrenaline that came from being startled, but the darker, slicker adrenaline of nerves. His hands were all sweaty and his breath was coming too fast, and Steve could probably tell that Bucky was freaking out. Bucky just had to say it. He trusted Steve. It would be okay.

“After the party’s over, can I, um, please . . .” Bucky didn’t quite know how to phrase it, so he let the words just drift into empty space.

“Please what?” Steve prompted, combing his hands through Bucky’s hair.

“Give you a blowjob?” It was a question rather than a request and Bucky’s voice was shaking and his hands were making fists to keep himself from walking his words back, but it was out, the sound waves reverberating around the quiet bedroom.

Steve’s hands tightened almost imperceptibly in Bucky’s hair and Bucky felt his chest fall as he exhaled slowly. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna be so tired from making sure everyone gets home okay. I can give you one, though, if you’d like,” Steve finally mumbled after ten awful seconds of nothing.

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t get it. If Steve didn’t want him, he could just say so. “Why?” Bucky finally asked, his voice plaintive as he squeezed his fists one more time before releasing them.

“Corralling drunk people is harder than herding cats,” Steve said, hesitating just barely enough that Bucky was able to tell that Steve was avoiding the question.

“No,” Bucky responded firmly, pulling back so he could actually look at Steve. It felt embarrassing to be begging like this, but Bucky had to know what was actually up, why Steve didn’t want Bucky like this.

“No, really, it is.” Steve’s voice was a little higher than normal, and the fact that Steve was so clearly not telling Bucky something made a little blossom of pain bloom just under Bucky’s ribs. Not telling him something important, judging by how vehemently and for how long Steve had avoided the question.

“Steve,” Bucky started, trying desperately to figure out how to phrase what he needed to say without sounding accusatory. “I wanna give you a blowjob, but I think it’s pretty clear you don’t want me to. Why?” Bucky’s voice broke with embarrassment on the last syllable, but he swallowed it down.

He was a little more tipsy than he probably should have been for this conversation, but the alcohol was probably the only reason he was able to talk to Steve about this without bursting into tears of insecurity. Besides, he’d only had two drinks. He was fine to drive and was fully conscious and everything, just a little redder and a little less nervous than normal. Bucky could kind of understand alcoholics right then; it just made everything easier, a little less blurry.

“Bucky, of course I want you to,” Steve said easily, brushing Bucky’s hair out of his face like that explained everything.

“But?” Bucky prompted, crossing his arms across his middle like that would shield him from the rejection Steve was inevitably about to dole out on him.

“No buts.” Steve was frowning softly, but he wasn’t really looking at Bucky, instead staring somewhere in the distance between them.

“Then why can’t I?” Bucky pressed. He was like a dog with a fucking bone, but he needed to know.

“It’s just never been a good time.” Steve’s eyes were focused on Bucky’s again, his brows drawn tight with concern.

“Bullshit,” Bucky pressed. He felt tears pricking the back of his eyes, and he blinked them back. There was no reason for him to be crying. He was just talking to Steve. He trusted Steve, and Steve trusted him. “It’s been a month since I asked the first time. There’s had to have been a good time.”

A horrible thought crawled up Bucky’s spine, cold and unwelcome and slimy with disgust. Steve had told Bucky he was bi, but there had been no evidence of it other than Steve ostensibly being into Bucky. Was Bucky just some fucked experiment for Steve, and Bucky sucking Steve off was crossing some sort of line for him? Bucky tried to close his eyes and shake off the thought, but he couldn’t. There was too much fucking evidence.

“Bucky, baby,” Steve said softly, squeezing Bucky’s waist.

“I don’t understand,” Bucky whispered.

The cacophony of the party was leaking into the room, breaking the tension between them slightly.

“Are you scared? ‘Cause I trust you, and you can trust me, and it’ll be good, I promise, I’ll-”

Steve cut off Bucky’s rambling with a gentle kiss, more of a press of Steve’s lips against Bucky’s than an actual kiss. “Honey, it’s not about whether or not it’s good,” he mumbled, pulling back and squeezing Bucky’s hips gently.

“Then what is it?”

Steve paused, swallowing. He was thinking, probably about how best to let Bucky down gently. “I don’t wanna take advantage of you, honey. You shouldn’t feel obligated to suck my dick just ‘cause I sucked yours.”

“What?” Bucky asked. The idea that Bucky wasn’t dying to suck Steve off was absolutely ludicrous to Bucky.

“I thought you were feeling pressured, baby. It wouldn’t be okay if I made you do something you didn’t want to.” Steve’s hands were rubbing up and down Bucky’s back firmly, reassuring and solid.

“I asked you in the first place, Steve.”

“I know, honey, I know. I think I just twisted myself up about it too much. Are you sure you actually want to, though?”

Bucky bit his lip tightly to hold back the laugh bubbling from his throat. It was ridiculous that Bucky could ever not want to suck Steve off. “Christ, Steve, of course I do. I want to so, so bad. Not ‘cause you sucked me off, but because I want to make you feel good and touch you everywhere and . . .” Bucky trailed off, gesturing broadly over Steve’s body like that was explanation enough.

Steve extricated himself from Bucky and walked to the door, shutting it firmly. “Okay, Buck,” he finally said after way too many seconds of silence. “Promise you want this?”

“Promise. Swear to God. Swear on every single god ever.” Bucky was definitely being overdramatic, but he just couldn’t help himself. Steve was right there, perfect and sexy and everything Bucky had ever wanted. 

“We’re gonna do it carefully and gently, though. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

Bucky wanted to tease Steve for babying Bucky, but he didn’t; no one wanted to be told they were anything less than a sex god when they were about to get their dick sucked.

Steve tossed off his robe, letting it ball up in the corner and unwrapped the tape around his hands, wadding it up and tossing it on top of the robe before laying back on the bed, splayed out. Bucky followed him and leaned down on top of Steve. “Can I kiss you?” Bucky asked gently, leaning on his right elbow and playing with Steve’s hair with the left.

Steve sighed and picked his hand up to tuck Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “You’re amazing, Bucky. You know that, right?” Steve asked softly, rubbing his fingertips along Bucky’s jawline. Steve’s eyes looked rounder and softer and sweeter than Bucky had ever seen them, and he wanted to just stare forever.

But, again, Steve was right there, so Bucky just blushed and nodded. “Right back at you,” he murmured.

“You can kiss me now. I just wanted to say that first.”

Bucky smiled and nodded, bumping his nose against Steve’s cheek gently before leaning down and kissing him. It was slow and soft, Steve’s hands rubbing up and down Bucky’s back lightly. Steve tasted a little bit like Jack Daniels, but it wasn’t unpleasant. His lips were just a little chapped against Bucky’s, and Bucky liked how it scraped just a little bit, but was too slow to be painful.

Steve broke the kiss after a few long, precious moments, moving on to Bucky’s earlobe and the tender spot behind it. “Can I grab your ass, baby?” he breathed into Bucky’s ear.

Bucky nodded and Steve’s hands left his back, instead grabbing Bucky’s ass and squeezing tightly. It went straight to Bucky’s cock, and Bucky couldn’t keep himself from moaning into the hollow of Steve’s throat.

“Good?” Steve asked, shoving Bucky’s ass so that Bucky slid up Steve’s body and Steve could kiss at Bucky’s chin and neck.

“Good.” Bucky bent over Steve and kissed at Steve’s hair.

“You know how much I adore you, right?” Steve’s chest rumbled against Bucky’s, even through the many layers of Bucky’s costume, and it made Bucky giggle and nod.

Steve shifted a little so he could get at Bucky’s neck better, and the new angle let Bucky feel how fucking hard Steve was against him. Suddenly, all this business of slow and gentle went out the window; Steve was clearly ready, so Bucky was, too.

“Are you ready?” Bucky asked through a whine as Steve nipped at his Adam’s apple.

“Yeah, honey, yeah. Just go slow and communicate with me. I want you to be happy and comfortable, too.”

Bucky nodded as he picked himself up and slid down Steve’s body, taking a moment to kiss just above Steve’s navel, which made Steve laugh breathlessly and grab at Bucky’s hair.

Bucky leaned back a little bit and took a moment to look at Steve, spread out under him. He was pink all down his chest, his lips swollen and his pupils blown wide. He was panting, and his hands were in fists, twisting by his sides. “You’re beautiful,” Bucky said reverently. He was being honest. Steve was perfect, hot and hard and somehow delicate-looking all at the same time.

“Thanks, honey. Can you get my fucking pants off now?”

Bucky didn’t even feel at all anxious; he was just excited and happy to get to do this with someone he adored as much as Steve. Bucky laughed and tugged Steve’s shorts down slowly, listening to Steve’s breathing to make sure it wasn’t anxious. It was excited, but even, and Bucky took that as an invitation to pull the shorts off and toss them somewhere behind him. It didn’t really matter where they landed right then.

Steve was just as beautiful there. He was hard, his whole cock a soft pink except for the tip, which was flushed darker, a deep red. Steve’s balls were drawn up tight, all pink, too. The dark curls at the base were trimmed short and neat. Bucky thanked the universe silently for bringing Steve into his life; Steve was perfect everywhere, but especially right there, right then.

Bucky rubbed soft circles on Steve’s hips, trying to calm himself down so he didn’t come in pants right then and there just from looking at Steve.

“All good?” Bucky asked, wetting his lips quickly since they felt all chapped.

“Great, Buck. Please, honey, please,” Steve mumbled.

Bucky blushed and bent over before giving a tentative lick to the head. All his research from the past months came flooding back to him, and he took a minute to just kiss Steve all over, tasting the sweat and the salt all over him. Beneath that, though, there was something deeper and sweeter, something that was just Steve, something that Bucky would wear as a cologne if he could.

Bucky licked carefully at Steve’s balls, with no pressure behind it; he never wanted to hurt Steve, especially when he was all vulnerable like this.

Steve gasped and Bucky felt the comforter shift under him as Steve twisted handfuls of it. Bucky pulled back and spat in his hand before rubbing over Steve’s whole shaft. It was probably too dry to be very good, but Bucky was using it as a warning more than anything else, just to let Steve know what was about to happen.

Gently, angling his head so there was no way his teeth would make any contact with the sensitive skin, Bucky lowered his head. Steve hiccupped out a gasp as the tip hit the back of Bucky’s throat. It felt weird, a not-quite-choking sensation that was scary but incredible at the same time, like the instant right after being caught in a trust fall. Of course, Steve was the one taking the proverbial trust fall here, so Bucky just gagged lightly, his eyes watering, and held steady.

Steve shifted under Bucky, sitting up. “Are you okay, sweetie? Do you need to stop?”

Bucky didn’t want Steve out of his mouth for a second. There was something intoxicating and arousing and just special about it, so Bucky just said “no” as best he could around Steve, the vibrations making Steve literally squeal and fall back on the bed, groaning. “I’m gonna take that as ‘you’re fine,’ but, baby, stop if you need to,” Steve groaned. His voice was rough, like he’d been screaming for hours on end.

Bucky began to move his head back and forth, slow and sweet, sweeping his tongue to try and taste as much of Steve as possible. Steve was gasping whenever Bucky’s tongue grazed his frenulum, so Bucky sat there for a moment or two, sucking on the head and letting his tongue just swipe around. It was kind of graceless and sloppy, but Steve didn’t seem to mind. He was practically fucking howling, a hand shoved over his mouth so no one downstairs would hear them, but it didn’t seem to be muffling much of anything.

“Bucky, baby, fuck,” Steve was chanting, his free hand swiping through Bucky’s hair possessively.

Bucky felt himself get even harder. Steve was feeling good. Steve was happy and hard and hot and it was all because of Bucky. It was a fucking head rush.

Bucky dipped down further, letting his hand squeeze what his mouth couldn’t get to, and sucked like his life depended on it.

Steve was gasping now. “Buck, I’m close, I’m close, baby. You can -- fuck -- stop if you need.”

Bucky let himself smile on the inside, seeing as his mouth was pretty preoccupied. Steve was coming apart like a piece of cheesecloth being ripped at by a dog, easy and quick and simple.

For some stupid reason, it reminded Bucky of his psych course in college. It had just been to fill a social science credit, but something about the parts being more than the whole flooded back to him. Because, really, he was just giving a gorgeous man a blowjob. But something about it made it so much more than that, so much better and safer and hotter and sexier and more perfect. Steve was just more than perfect.

Bucky was alight with warmth as he looked up at Steve to see what he looked like as he came. Steve was staring into Bucky’s eyes, his face bright with a blush. His mouth tore open in a moan as he tensed and came. Bucky tried to swallow, wanted to taste Steve as much as he could, but there was too much too quickly, and it was dribbling out of Bucky’s mouth and onto his lips.

Bucky was trying not to choke, just to suck Steve through it, but there was just too much, and he pulled back, spitting jizz onto his fucking hand. It would have been funny if it didn’t feel so gross. He felt worse for Steve than he did for himself; it was probably a shitty orgasm since Bucky had aborted sucking him halfway through.

Bucky felt arms wrap around him, and Steve’s sweaty chest against his cheek. “Fuck, Bucky,” Steve was saying, his voice a low rumble in Bucky’s ear. “Fuck, honey, I told you that you could pull off. Are you okay?”

Bucky coughed through the worst of it and leaned his head against Steve’s chest. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. He’d wanted to get Steve off so bad, and when he’d finally gotten the chance, he’d ruined it by coughing up fucking semen like a backed up fucking toilet.

Steve’s lips were pressed against Bucky’s scalp, soft kisses that Bucky sensed more than felt.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbled, holding his jizz-and-spit-covered hand out in front of him so it wouldn’t touch Steve.

“No, honey, no,” Steve mumbled.

“Was it too shitty?” Bucky said, ashamed and uncomfortable and upset all at once.

“Fuck, Bucky, no. I haven’t fucking come that hard in forever. You’re perfect, you’re amazing. Are you alright, though?”

Bucky shrugged. His nostrils and the back of his throat were burning, but at least the coughing was done and Steve was holding him. It was okay.

“I’ll get you some water. Is that okay? I’ll be gone less than a minute.”

Bucky nodded, sighing and shifting so Steve could get up.

Steve still thought he was amazing. That made him blush, despite all of the embarrassment he was feeling. He was sure that he looked like a fucking twat, his hand and chin covered in come and slobber. It was embarrassing and gross and it was gonna get caught in his beard and dry and be even grosser. His hard-on had even died because of it.

But as Steve came back with a washcloth and a glass of water, it somehow didn’t feel too awful. Especially when Steve pulled Bucky to rest against his chest and turned on the TV to some documentary about narwhals.

There was still some noise from the party downstairs, and Bucky’s throat was still burning, but it was okay. He was with Steve, so he was safe.

Safe enough that he knew it was time to tell Steve about his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliff-hanger! Hope you enjoyed, though, and thanks so much for reading!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some feels, y'all!!!

It was probably stupid to force himself to do this, but if Bucky didn’t do it now he never would. After half a dozen botched attempts at telling Steve casually, Danvers had said to actually schedule it so he wouldn’t procrastinate, and Bucky had been all for it; anything to get him to actually fucking do it. But now that the day was here, Bucky wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

Talking about it with Danvers had been hard enough, and she was a trained professional. She had been kind about it, at least. Steve probably would, too, if Steve’s past behavior was anything to go by. But it was scary. Because with Danvers, Bucky didn’t think he’d die if she said he was gross and disgusting and a mess, but if Steve said that, Bucky knew he would.

But if he didn’t do it now, he never would. It’d literally been penciled in on his phone calendar for nearly a week: November 12: Tell Steve about the shoulder. Bucky’d even dug through the box of his old army fatigues to find pictures of him while he was serving, during his hospital stay, and one of the less bloody pictures from the medical report, just for context. The pictures were tucked in a little Ziploc in the inside pocket of Bucky’s jacket, which had pressed insistently on the bottom of his ribs until Bucky had thrown it off because he couldn’t bear to feel it anymore.

It was time to tell Steve. Time to take off his shirt and let Steve see. Steve had been patient when Bucky refused to take his shirt off in front of him for months; it was time for Steve to see, and understand. It was time for Bucky to explain. He’d been ready, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t horrifying. He trusted Steve, and part of that trust meant being honest with Steve, even about the things Bucky least wanted to be.

He’d procrastinated long enough; it was nearly midnight, and they’d watched two movies already because Bucky had been too nervous to tell Steve and had wanted more time. It felt like his shoulder was burning a hole through his shirt and Steve could see it and was judging it already.

Bucky glanced up from how he was slotted against Steve, his own head on Steve’s chest, just to check if Steve had noticed Bucky’s anxiety, but Steve was focused on the movie, his hands gently tugging at the ends of Bucky’s tangled hair. Bucky rubbed his cheek softly on Steve’s chest, wanting to soak up the contact in case this was the last time he ever got to do so.

Steve responded by tugging Bucky’s hair slightly more insistently and rubbing the back of Bucky’s neck with his thumbs.

Bucky wanted this interstitial time, when Steve didn’t know anything was wrong with Bucky and Bucky still had Steve, to last forever. He wanted the movie to just loop, and for them to never get hungry, or tired, or need to pee. He just wanted them to stay there, tangled together like headphones tucked into someone’s pocket; safe and loved and unmoving.

But the movie was somehow ending already and the credits were playing, and if Bucky didn’t do it now he knew he never would. Steve was already gently shoving at Bucky, trying to see if Bucky was awake without disturbing him. Bucky didn’t respond except for tightening his grip around Steve’s chest as much as he could without being painfully obvious.

His heart was in his throat, and if it wasn’t there blocking the acid in the stomach, he probably would have thrown up all over Steve.

“Buck, you asleep?” Steve asked, his voice a low, exhausted rumble. Bucky had waited too long. Steve was tired, and if Bucky told him now he would be too exhausted to understand. But if Bucky didn’t tell Steve tonight, he never would, would just keep procrastinating until he moved back to New York. Which is another thing he needed to talk to Steve about, since Bucky couldn’t bear the thought of never getting to kiss or hold Steve again because of a mere 3,000 miles.

“Bucky?” Steve asked again, less sleep in his voice this time, rubbing Bucky’s back gently through Bucky’s T-shirt.

“Please,” Bucky tried to say calmly, but it ended up sounding more like begging. “Can we just stay here a little while longer?” If Steve never tried to go to bed, never had to kick Bucky out so he could, then Bucky wouldn’t have not told him; Bucky was just waiting, simple as that. If they just stayed here, time would be stuck and Bucky could have Steve forever, and Steve would never have to know about the utter ugliness that Bucky possessed.

Steve laughed, clearly oblivious to Bucky’s plight, and kissed the top of Bucky’s head. “Sure, sweetie, but we gotta get to bed eventually. We got work tomorrow, you know.”

Bucky shook his head stubbornly. “We don’t have to go. We can just stay here forever.” His voice broke on the last word, and a flush crawled up his neck to the tips of his ears.

Steve laughed again, and it hurt that Bucky was probably going to crush whatever joy Steve was feeling. “Whatever you want, Bucky.”

“Please.” Bucky felt panic sitting in his throat, sharp and coppery. He trusted Steve, but this was scary. Every ex-boyfriend he’d had had been kind about it, but Bucky could tell all of them saw it as a flaw. Bucky would never be comfortable naked unless he was alone, he was anxious about it all the time, and it made it hard to just be sometimes. That wasn’t even to mention the pain. It was a major detraction against dating him for anyone who actually liked being intimate with anyone.

As if in response to his anxiety, a coil of pain curled up in his shoulder, violently painting his nerves with aches. Surreptitiously, Bucky loosened his grip on Steve’s chest and relaxed the muscle, praying for the pain to go away.

Steve must have taken that as Bucky feeling ready to get up, though, because he sighed and sat up, pushing Bucky up with him. “Want me to drive you home, honey?” Steve asked, carding his hands through Bucky’s hair.

“No,” Bucky said firmly, pressing his forehead into Steve’s sternum like he could do some kind of fucking mind meld with it and make Steve understand everything without having to explain it.

“Wanna call your driver, then?”

“No,” Bucky repeated. How could he explain to Steve that it felt impossible for him to leave, that it would be physically painful for him to go right now?

“Well, I’d feel weird if you took an Uber home right now, honey. It’s so late.” Steve’s grip tightened on Bucky’s back, like he was protecting him against some imaginary threat. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Bucky pushed ineffectually at Steve’s chest with his forehead, trying to get Steve to lay back down, so they could go back to the interstitial place, but Steve stood solid as ever and just wouldn’t go. “I don’t wanna go home. Not yet,” Bucky whispered desperately. He wasn’t sure if he was telling himself or Steve.

“A few minutes longer, then, Buck,” Steve murmured, sounding perfectly content to hold Bucky to his chest for longer.

Bucky gripped Steve’s shirt in his fists, trying to ground himself, but it didn’t work. He didn’t want Steve to see everything. Bucky liked Steve so much. It would be devastating for Bucky if Steve was disgusted by him. He trusted Steve so much, too, though. Steve deserved to know everything. He was patient and kind and sweet and Bucky owed it to him to be honest with him.

So, when Steve went to try and get Bucky home again, Bucky finally spoke up.

“Steve, I can’t leave yet. I need to talk to you. It’s important.” The words all came out of Bucky in a rush, like someone had punched him in the stomach and the air running out of his lungs just happened to take the form of words. He was mumbling, and it probably was unintelligible, but at least he’d gotten it out. He’d broken the ice, at least a little bit.

“What was that, sweetheart?”

Bucky swallowed, lifting his face to make eye contact with Steve. He was so gorgeous. Huge eyes and pink cheeks and strong jaw with a hint of stubble, and just overwhelming . . . Steveness. God, Bucky hoped Steve wouldn’t leave him to die over this.

“Can I talk to you? I promise it’s important. Um, really important.” Bucky was praising himself for being direct and making eye contact, but then Steve tensed up under him, and all the joy he felt at finally speaking up melted away like hail on a summer day; sublimating and evaporating instead of truly melting, quick and violent and unnatural.

Steve sat up a little straighter, and Bucky sat up, too, instead of glomming onto Steve like he wanted to. He was still on Steve’s lap, though, straddling his thighs, and he awkwardly picked himself up and went to the door to grab his jacket with the pictures in it where it was hung up on a peg, all neat and perfect just like Steve.

“What’s up?” Steve asked as Bucky walked back to the couch. Steve had adjusted himself so he was sitting cross-legged, his head leaned forward into his hand so it could toy with the stubble there. Bucky wanted to kiss him so bad, to just distract both of them so they could do this later, but he’d already told Steve that this was happening, that they needed to talk. He couldn’t back down now.

Bucky was glad that they were doing it here, downstairs and nowhere near Steve’s bedroom. That room was special, and intimate, and it was the exact opposite of the venue that this conversation required. That room was for cuddling Steve in his underwear, not for disgusting Steve to the point where he was repulsed by Bucky as a whole.

Bucky took handfuls of the canvas of his jacket and squeezed them, letting out a long, slow breath. As much as he was desperately terrified of telling Steve, he did trust Steve to the ends of the Earth. It would be scary, but he could tell Steve about this. It would be okay. Bucky sighed, trying to run with the confidence thinking about Steve had inspired as he ran his own hand through his hair, trying to figure out the best place to start.

“Okay,” Bucky said softly, deciding to start with what information was most relevant to Steve. “You know how I don’t make my shirt off, yeah?”

Steve nodded, bringing his hands forward and resting them on the top of Bucky’s thighs. It made Bucky let out some tension that he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and he leaned into the touch in response. That was just further evidence that it was time Bucky told Steve everything; Bucky didn’t just appreciate Steve’s touch, but it actively relaxed him.

“Um, okay.” Bucky swallowed. This was the hard part. “It’s not that I’m insecure about, like, my baby fat or whatever. Um . . .” Bucky trailed off, trying to get his thoughts together without dragging it on for Steve too long. He was mad at himself for not planning ahead of time, but every time he’d tried it’d made him nervous and he’d had to stop before he had a panic attack. But now the moment was here, and he’d had no legitimate preparation.

“Take your time, sweetie. I’m not going anywhere,” Steve mumbled softly, rubbing his thumbs over Bucky’s quads.

“You know I was in the army, yeah?” Bucky felt so small just then, but Steve just hummed encouragingly in affirmation.

“Okay. Uh, short version, I got hurt when I was serving. That’s why I was discharged after only four years.” His voice was rough and gravelly, and he couldn’t stop looking at his hands fisted in his canvas jacket.

“What kind of hurt, honey?” Steve asked, squeezing Bucky’s thigh, concern leeching into his voice.

Bucky didn’t know how to keep this from being horrifyingly clinical. Every time he’d told it, he’d just quoted the doctors directly. But Steve deserved more than a detached, bored explanation. Steve deserved to know why it mattered so much. Why it made Bucky feel like dying whenever he had to tell someone new about it. Why his dose of painkillers felt like his only grip on sanity sometimes.

It felt like Bucky was dangling on the edge of a precipice, and every word he spoke made his grip on the edge of the ravine more and more tenuous. It felt like Bucky was slipping on black ice, just terror and vertigo grabbing at the edges of his being. It felt like Bucky was choking on his own trachea. He took a slow breath. He’d barely started, but he needed a break. 

“Could I have a glass of water? I’ll tell you, I just need to drink something.” His voice was suddenly too loud, and it made him cringe

Steve nodded, and squeezed Bucky’s thigh again. Bucky finally looked up and made eye contact with Steve. Steve’s eyes were sad, and worried, and his lips were drawn in a thin line that looked almost like anger.

“I just -- my throat’s dry,” Bucky explained desperately, not wanting Steve to be mad at him for needing a break already.

Steve’s anger melted away and was rapidly replaced by a careful smile. “I know, Buck. Just water? Or tea? Or whiskey?”

Bucky huffed out something resembling a laugh at the proposition of a stiff drink. “Tea would actually be really nice.” His voice was small, but Steve seemed to understand, squeezing Bucky’s thigh again before standing up.

“Can I kiss you, honey?” Steve asked, tucking Bucky’s hair behind his ears.

Bucky nodded and Steve leaned down. The kiss was quick and dry and chaste, but it made Bucky feel safe and reassured; he trusted Steve. This was okay. He was okay.

“Be right back.” Steve’s feet padded into the kitchen, and Bucky took the few minutes of alone time to pull the Ziploc of pictures from where he’d stuffed it in his jacket pocket. The first few photos were nice; he was young, and his hair was short, and he was clean-shaven, for once. There he was after completing basic with his mom and dad. There he was one of his first nights in Afghanistan. There he was the week before he got hurt. There he was in the hospital under a barrage of sterile bandages. There he was holding his Purple Heart in the rehab center back in New York. There he was after being discharged from the rehab center. The last picture in the stack was the hardest to look at: a close-up shot of the shoulder, mere hours after it’d been hurt. You could see shrapnel glittering in it still, since it was before the surgery.

Bucky tucked that photo back in the stack and took a deep breath. His shoulder was aching like it was empathizing with Bucky’s jangled nerves. Luckily, he’d thought to rub a numbing cream into the skin so soft contact wouldn’t hurt, in case Steve wanted to touch it or something. In case Steve wasn’t utterly disgusted.

“Baby, do you want any honey?” Steve called from the kitchen.

Bucky smiled in spite of the choked feeling in his throat. Steve was always so considerate. “Just a bit,” Bucky said back.

If Steve was adding honey already, that meant it was almost time to tell him everything. Bucky didn’t want Steve to kick him out, to be disgusted by him. Bucky really just wanted Steve to stay there in the kitchen forever, close but not close enough to know everything. Even more, Bucky wanted to just go back to cradling himself against Steve.

But now Steve was back, handing Bucky a steaming mug of green tea and running his own fingers through Bucky’s hair casually and caringly. It made Bucky’s stomach, already tight and rolling, feel just a little looser. It made Bucky feel a little looser all over. It was just some scarring. Of course, it was scarring that hurt debilitatingly half the time and had gotten him booted from the US Army, but, really, it was just some scarring.

Bucky didn’t understand his violent oscillations from terror to acceptance. It didn’t make any sense, but Bucky wasn’t gonna complain about a little more confidence. Especially right now.

“Okay,” Bucky said slowly, sipping his tea. It was just on the right side of sweet, and it made Bucky feel warm all over. Like Steve.

Bucky had to get a grip; he didn’t need to mix metaphors, especially right fucking now.

“Well, um, I started serving straight out of high school,” Bucky explained in a small voice. Steve was nodding encouragingly and resting a hand on Bucky’s knee, almost as an anchor. It was nice. “My dad was a vet, so I wanted to do it too.” Bucky shoved the picture of him completing basic into Steve’s hands.

Steve smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You were adorable. Look at your hair!”

Bucky blushed, but shook his head. He was getting distracted. He put the pictures down; his cuteness or lack thereof was not the fucking point. He needed to get through this, or he would never be truly honest with Steve.

“Can I keep going?” Bucky asked softly.

Steve nodded again, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something before shutting it. Bucky took that as an invitation to keep going, and plowed on.

“It was good. I really liked the army, which surprised me, ‘cause I was always kind of a quiet, anxious, nerdy kid.”

“Still are,” Steve said, his voice warm and velvet and soothing.

Bucky’s blush deepened and he shook his head like that would help clear it. “Thanks. So, um, I was stationed in Afghanistan, and I was a sniper, so it was my job to find a good place to, like, stand.” Bucky left the rest of it unsaid; that he had obviously shot a few people because of that. They weren’t civilians, and it hadn’t been weird at the time, and he’d worked out his residual guilt in therapy, but it felt weird saying it to Steve, who was sweet and pacific and kind. But Steve didn’t look like he was judging Bucky at all.

Instead, he was just looking at Bucky, patient and quiet and so clearly listening that if Bucky wasn’t already jumping out of his skin with nerves, he would have squirmed with discomfort. “And one day we had, like, a longer-distance mission,” Bucky continued. “A few weeks. It was me and maybe a dozen other guys. And there was this freak rainstorm during the first day, and we were fucking soaked. Everything smelled like mildew.” Bucky barked out a laugh at that, something caught between a chuckle and a sob.

Steve looked a little worried, his thumb starting to rub circles on Bucky’s knee. “That why you hate the rain?” Steve asked, his voice low like it would startle Bucky if it was any louder.

Bucky nodded, trying to smile at Steve’s intelligence and thoughtfulness, but only able to grimace. “Trust me, you would too.”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s knee and swallowed visibly.

Bucky took it as permission to continue and took a sip of the tea before continuing. “Last day of the mission, I was scouting a good vantage point in this abandoned apartment building, and I stepped wrong, or something threw something, or . . . something. They investigated plenty but didn’t come to any conclusions. I didn’t press the issue, seeing as I was pretty fucking depressed for the entire investigation. I was also hopped up on morphine for, like, six straight months, anyway, so it wasn’t like I’d be much help.” Bucky smiled like it was a joke, but Bucky knew that Steve could tell that it wasn’t.

Steve’s fingers were digging into Bucky’s knee now, his face a mask of calm over eyes that seethed with rage. “But, regardless of how it happened, an IED went off about fifteen, twenty feet away from me, and I got fucking nailed by shrapnel. It was just fucking random. I was on the first floor, so I was able to get out relatively easily, but, um . . .” Bucky let himself trail off because he wasn’t sure how to continue.

The story itself didn’t make Bucky feel much of anything. It’d scared him at first, and he’d spent several hours crying over it. Then, it’d made him angry and he’d screamed and thrown things and dug his nails into the stitches like that’d help. He was lucky he hadn’t gotten a fucking infection. Then, it’d made him sad, while he was curled up in bed late at night. If only he’d chosen the building across the street. If only he’d chosen to fucking head back to base after the monsoon. Bucky’d replayed those hours so many fucking times in his memory that now they didn’t really hurt too bad. It was like they were a jagged crystal that Bucky had touched so many times so as to wear it down to be smooth. All he felt now was a little bit of wistfulness, a longing for youth and innocence and wearing tank tops in public.

Bucky sighed, choosing to plow on into the aftermath. “I was med-evac’ed outta there and put on the first jet home. I was really lucky, honestly. Only my shoulder was hit badly, and the other places that got hit with shrapnel healed easily. Recovery of motion was a year or two, even though it’s still not perfect a lot of days. But I can write now most of the time, and lie on that side on good days. And if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have my job at Columbia, or Eustace, or . . .” Again, Bucky left the last part unsaid. He didn’t need to put that pressure on Steve. Not then.

Having the words out didn’t feel as awful as Bucky thought it would. Steve was still here. He wasn’t calling Bucky some PTSD-fucked weirdo. Of course, Steve hadn’t actually seen it yet, though. There was still time for him to be disgusted.

Steve, though, looked ready to punch through a wall. The hand not on Bucky’s knee was curled into a fist, and his eyes were closed like he was envisioning some brutal death to anyone or anything that would dare hurt Bucky. Steve took a deep breath through his nose before refocusing on Bucky.

“What’s your pain like?” Steve’s voice was soft, but Bucky could hear an edge of rage on the very end of the sentence.

“Depends on the day. I take a daily dose or two of painkillers, depending on how bad it is. On good days, I’m down to only Advil.” Bucky said it like it was something to be proud of, but he knew it wasn’t. It was sad, and pitiful, and Steve was gonna kick him out soon for being gross and broken.

Steve opened his mouth like he wanted to say something before shutting it again and then reopening it. He repeated this process maybe three or four times before finally asking, “Can I see?”

“Now or then?” Bucky asked, doing his best to ignore the way his heart was starting to beat harder at the very idea of Steve looking at how bad it was.

“What do you mean?”

“What it looked like right after, or what it looks like now,” Bucky explained, trying to keep the panic that came with the more immediate terror of Steve looking at it out of his voice.

“Either. Both.”

Bucky nodded slowly, putting his tea to the side so he could rifle through the pictures, and picked the last picture from the stack, the close shot. This was somehow easier, showing Steve the recent image. It was bloodier and grosser, but Bucky felt more detached from it, probably because he’d been taking so many fucking painkillers that he didn’t have clear memory of what it had looked like at first. Bucky passed it to Steve wordlessly, watching Steve’s expression intently, waiting for shock or disgust or disappointment. But Steve just closed his eyes and squeezed Bucky’s knee tighter. Bucky gritted his teeth, waiting for the inevitable pity to surface, but it didn’t. Steve looked just looked upset and sad.

“How bad did it hurt? At first, I mean.” Steve’s voice was wavering a little, holding back emotion.

“I was on a lotta morphine, so not too bad,” Bucky said, trying for a smile again.

“Can I see it now?”

The elephant in the room. Bucky bit his lips till they were bloodless. He trusted Steve. It would be fine. Steve had already seen the photo of him passed out in the hospital with shards of glass and drywall stuck in a raw, bloody lump. At least now he had no open wounds.

But Bucky still couldn’t shake the image of Steve seeing it, scoffing coldly, and throwing Bucky his coat because Steve couldn’t be with someone who was that physically imperfect. Even without Bucky’s anxieties, it was weird to think about a movie star, someone who’s literally idolized for being the pinnacle of human perfection, dating someone, wanting someone, who had an area the size of a half sheet of paper that would give kids fucking nightmares. The shoulder looked like some eldritch horror, and Steve was some innocent protagonist who would be grossed out and probably killed by it.

“It’s less gory now, but, um . . .” Bucky trailed off uncertainly. He had no words to describe the shoulder that were appropriate; they were either too light, and would butter Steve up too much, or too harsh and would probably scare him away from looking at all.

“It’s okay, Bucky. You don’t have to,” Steve said warmly, all the upset from earlier replaced with a sweet reassurance.

“I’m just . . . I don’t want you to be disgusted by me.” The words felt sharp as tacks as they left Bucky’s mouth, stabbing him and aching all over.

“Oh, Bucky.” Steve’s voice was soft and sweet and overwhelmingly gentle. “I could never be disgusted by you.”

“What if you don’t want me after you see it?” Bucky mumbled.

Steve’s eyebrows knitted together as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Why would you think that, sweetie?”

Bucky’s question seemed ludicrous now that Steve had challenged it, clearly a product of his anxiety rather than his own self. “You’re so gorgeous, Steve. And I’m . . . It’s just not.”

Steve’s mouth twisted into a gentle frown. “Bucky I don’t l-” Steve cut himself off with a sharp inhale. “Your body doesn’t make or break my attraction to you, Buck. I want you because you’re funny and sweet and clever and considerate. And super hot. But one shoulder isn’t going to make me view you as ugly. I could never view you as ugly.”

The words sunk into Bucky’s stomach like a warm stone dropped into a pond. They were sweet and kind and reassuring and positive, and made Bucky feel all those things in kind.

“That being said,” Steve said, cutting into Bucky’s warmth without interrupting it, “you absolutely don’t have to show me.”

Bucky shook his head stubbornly. He wanted Steve to see this. He trusted Steve completely, and this was a component of that. Besides, it was exhausting to pretend like everything was fine when everything hurt, and if he told Steve, Bucky wouldn’t have to pretend quite as much.

Steve placed the picture of Bucky after basic next to Bucky’s abandoned tea. Steve was ready. Now it was Bucky’s turn. Slowly, carefully, Bucky lifted the hem of his T-shirt over his head and put it down on the couch next to him. From the front, the scarring was less bad. It barely curled over onto his chest. The worst part, the part that looked like an overbaked pizza, was on the back. Bucky told Steve this much by turning so Steve could see it as a whole, both so Steve could truly look at it, and to avoid seeing whatever horrified expression was making its way onto Steve’s face.

The air was cold on Bucky’s bare skin, and it made goosebumps prickle up his neck. Steve was completely silent, unmoving, and it made Bucky scared. He was probably frozen with disgust and figuring out the quickest way to bleach his eyes.

Bucky wanted desperately to look over his shoulder and see Steve’s face, read the disgust on it, but, as long as he didn’t look, Steve could have any expression on his face. It could be kind, or loving. Ignorance was supposedly bliss, after all, and Bucky was perfectly content to sit there for days on end, not knowing.

Finally, after what must have been at least two minutes, but felt like two days of complete silence, Steve let out a soft breath. “Oh, Bucky. Baby.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Here was the pity, the fact that Bucky was ugly and broken and ruined. He closed his fists like that could stop the pity, but, of course, it couldn’t.

“I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me like this,” Steve chuckled.

That did make Bucky look over his shoulder. He’d expected disgust, been ready for pity, had braced himself for disdain. But making fun of him? That hurt, right in between Bucky’s third and fourth ribs, cutting him in half and eviscerating everything he had into bloody ribbons.

“You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. God, just look at you.”

Bucky looked at him, accusatory, but Steve didn’t seem to even notice. His face was soft and open and almost reverent, his eyes locked on the knot where the scarring was the thickest, where a golf ball-sized chunk of debris had lodged in the muscle, where the doctors had planned to amputate until Bucky had recovered enough that it wasn’t necessary. Steve was still mocking him, after all his promises, and it burned, made Bucky’s eyes sting.

“Steve, stop,” Bucky said, his voice tight like a piano wire about to snap. “You don’t need to make fun of me.”

“What? No, Bucky,” Steve said hurriedly, looking up at Bucky quickly. “You’re misunderstanding. I’m not making fun of you at all. You just . . . you’re beautiful.” Steve’s eyes were round and open, his mouth downturned like the very idea of someone mocking Bucky was distasteful to him.

“I’m not, Steve. You know I’m not.” Bucky wanted to scream at Steve, to hit him for mocking Bucky like this.

“Bucky, you’re perfect to me,” Steve said, his expression guarded and sad.

Bucky closed his eyes, willing the sting in his eyes to dissipate. He’d known this was a possibility. It didn’t matter that he’d trusted Steve. Steve was just like anyone else, which meant that he could be cruel like anyone else. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt worse than the shoulder ever had, though. “Steve, please. Don’t tease me about this.”

“I’m not teasing you. I’m being honest.” Steve’s voice was desperate, pleading, and Bucky’s head finally clicked into place over the cacophony of alarm that his anxiety was triggering. Bucky sighed, letting some of his tension out. Steve wasn’t being cruel. He was being delusional, but not cruel.

“Are you sure you’re being honest?”

“A billion percent, Bucky.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Bucky nodded and let out the anxious breath he’d been holding. Steve was insane, but he, for some godforsaken reason, still wanted Bucky.

“Can I touch them?”

That made Bucky freeze. He’d known it was coming, even prepared for it, but it didn’t make it any easier. But Steve thought he was beautiful, despite everything that was wrong with him. “Gently. They, um- It’s sensitive.”

Bucky felt the couch shift as Steve scooted closer to him. The warmth of Steve’s hands hovering over his skin, one over the shoulder and one over his waist, seared into Bucky’s skin like a brand. To his surprise, his heart wasn’t racing. It was calm. His subconscious, even if he himself hadn’t realized it, was okay with this. Wanted this. This total acceptance of him, scars and all.

“This okay?” Steve whispered, his breath ghosting over the back of Bucky’s neck and bringing him back down to Earth.

Bucky nodded mutely. He didn’t think he was capable of words right now. The fact that Steve was attracted to the scars was fucking ludicrous, robbing him of his speech and his rational thought.

Bucky felt a firm pressure on his waist as Steve wrapped his hand tightly around it, the tips of his fingers rubbing at Bucky’s chest hair. On his shoulder, there was no contact yet, just the heat radiating from Steve’s hand.

“Ready?” Steve asked softly.

Bucky nodded, tensing slightly at just the barest hint of a touch, the pads of Steve’s fingertips tracing the marred pattern so lightly that he was barely conscious of it.

Bucky was just glad that it was a good pain day. The light, almost tickling, touch, would have been agony on almost any other day. Steve’s fingers worked their way up from the thick knot in the middle to the part where the scars petered out on Bucky’s bicep, to the tendrils that wound their way down to brush Bucky’s spine, over the bump of his shoulder and to the area where the skin didn’t have defined scarring, just a pink tint, over his collarbone. It was like Steve was a cartographer and Bucky was some highly important island; every touch was slow and reverent and careful, like Steve was memorizing every inch of the scarring.

It was so quiet that Bucky’s breathing seemed deafeningly loud. When his breath would hitch as Steve brushed a particularly sensitive spot, it felt like the cacophony of a thousand different metal concerts being played all over one another.

Steve shifted a little, the hand on Bucky’s shoulder coming down to press on Bucky’s chest, right over his heart. Bucky relaxed, thinking that Steve was done, that he’d made his mental map and he was satisfied. But then Steve was shifting again, and Bucky felt the ghost of a kiss over his shoulder.

Bucky gasped in surprise and shock, but Steve just made his lips’ touch even lighter and pressed his hand harder over Bucky’s heart. Steve’s lips were copying his fingers’ path, slow and light and barely there. If Bucky wasn’t so sensitive, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the touch at all.

The only thing he truly was conscious of was the feeling of a soft drop of liquid plopping onto his shoulder once or twice and a shuddering breath from behind him. Steve was crying.

It almost made Bucky jump. If anything, he should be the one crying, as he was all exposed like this. But all the sting behind his eyes had dried up. He felt okay. Good, even. But Steve obviously didn’t. Even if he was still somehow attracted to Bucky, the disturbance that came with close contact to marred flesh was probably setting in.

“Steve, hey,” Bucky said as he tried to keep the startle out of his voice, craning his neck to try and see Steve’s face, assess how he was feeling. “It’s just tissue.”

“I know. I’m okay, Bucky,” Steve mumbled, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m okay.” Steve paused to press more kisses to Bucky’s shoulder before continuing, “You’re incredible, Bucky.”

“Thanks. Are you okay?”

Steve pressed a kiss to the thickest part of the scarring. “I’m good, baby.”

“Steve, what’s going on?” Bucky asked gently, twisting and reaching up to cup Steve’s cheek.

“I’m just . . . overwhelmed. You’re perfect, Bucky. Just relax. You’re perfect.”

Bucky blushed and nodded for the umpteenth time. It was okay that Steve needed a moment. Bucky, after all, had needed quite a few of them himself to come to terms with his shoulder.

So Bucky just listened to Steve’s request and relaxed into him, and Steve leaned back and pulled Bucky onto his lap. He was just holding Bucky against himself tightly, careful to keep Bucky’s shoulder from touching him too roughly. Steve’s chest was shaking against Bucky’s back, and Bucky just put his hands over Steve’s. There was nothing else to do except let Steve cry over him and try to mentally project to Steve how much Bucky loved him.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

“Are you sure?” Bucky asked, squeezing Steve’s hands for the umpteenth time that afternoon.

“Bucky,” Steve said firmly, pushing his forehead against Bucky’s firmly. “It’s literally five days, and you’re gonna be one phone call away. We’ll be fine.”

“You’ll scoop him every day right?”

“And cuddle him, and give him wet food in the morning and dry food in the evening, and brush out his fur on Saturday. I got it, Buck.”

Bucky was stupidly lucky. Who else had someone as perfect as Steve to catsit for Bucky while he went home for Thanksgiving? He was even staying at Bucky’s place to make sure Eustace wasn’t lonely. It was fucking ideal.

They were standing in Bucky’s living room, the late afternoon sunshine filtering through the window and bathing them in soft, golden light. Bucky’s flight was early the next morning and Steve had selflessly volunteered to stay over and drive Bucky over to the airport at four in the fucking morning. Bucky had to keep himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. Steve was a dream in general, and him sleeping over was even better. Bucky loved sleeping on Steve’s chest, hearing his heart and feeling his breathing and the way his muscles tensed when he laughed. Getting to do it for almost a full night, barring the hours that they’d be awake and driving to the airport, sounded fucking perfect.

Even now, just showing Steve how to take care of Eustace for the weekend, was great. Bucky was wearing a beat-up pair of sweatpants and fuzzy socks, his glasses abandoned on the end table so he could kiss Steve more easily. He wasn’t wearing a shirt since his second round of painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet and any soft brush on it hurt like a motherfucker, but he didn’t mind the shirtlessness too much. Steve thought he was beautiful, and the most he’d done in the two weeks since Bucky had told him about the shoulder had been to kiss it ridiculously gently. Steve had even offered to ice it for him, which Bucky had kindly refused, since ice made it seize and hurt worse.

“And you’re sure you’re okay? I told you, my mom is fine with you coming. We could watch Friends on the plane.” Bucky asked gently. He just wanted to check in with Steve, since the last thing Bucky wanted was for Steve to feel like Bucky was abandoning him with Eustace.

Steve’s easy smile faded as Bucky asked Steve that. He squeezed Bucky’s hands a little harder and nosed at Bucky’s cheek. “I’m good. I told you, I have some things I need to do.”

That worried Bucky; Steve hadn’t mentioned seeing any family for the holiday, but refused to come with Bucky and use Bucky’s family as a proxy for his own, insisting that if Steve came, he would have been intruding. Bucky didn’t even have words to explain how badly he wanted Steve there, but Steve wouldn’t hear a word of it. Even if he did, he would have just kept claiming that he had some things he needed to do. Bucky did want him there, though, even if Steve refused. Bucky was going to miss him, after all, miss the way he laughed and smiled and kissed.

“But you’ll still call and everything, right?” Bucky asked plaintively. “Even if you have other plans?”

Steve’s smile was back as he kissed Bucky firmly on the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Every night.”

“And you’ll put Eustace on the phone too?”

Steve laughed, his whole body moving against Bucky’s as he did so. “Just when I thought you were gonna miss me more than Eustace.”

Bucky shook his head. “I’ll miss you both.”

“Of course, baby,” Steve replied sarcastically, kissing Bucky’s cheek.

“I’m serious. I’m gonna miss you.”

“No you won’t. You’re gonna be having the time of your life with your family.”

Bucky wanted to say something sappy like “Time with you is the time of my life,” but he refrained. Even though Steve made him absolutely melt, Bucky didn’t want to say something overbearing and make it weird. Instead, he gently shifted the subject, “Maybe, but are you gonna be lonely?”

“Well, I’ll miss you plenty, but I’m having a Friendsgiving at Sam’s, so I should be fine.”

Bucky blushed at his own assumption that he was Steve’s whole social calendar beyond Steve’s never-mentioned family; Steve was, quite literally, one of the most popular people on the planet. He’d have out his door a line a hundred miles long if he invited everyone who wanted to have Thanksgiving dinner with him. Instead of making Bucky feel small like stupid oversights like that usually did, though, it just made Bucky even more lucky that he had Steve to sleep over and take care of Eustace. Steve had chosen him. Steve could have anyone, and he had chosen Bucky. It made Bucky feel all glowy inside.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” Bucky mumbled, rubbing his cheek against the juncture of Steve’s neck and shoulder.

Bucky was going to miss Steve. These five days were the longest they’d gone without seeing each other in some capacity since Steve’d kissed him in the first place, back in July. Bucky didn’t know what he’d do without getting to at least look at Steve a few times every day. Of course, he could always stalk the man’s Twitter, but that wasn’t anywhere close to the real thing.

Steve’s Twitter didn’t capture how deep his laugh was, or the way his hair stuck straight up if he’d been lying weirdly, or how enveloping his hugs were, or how soft his smile looked after he’d come. It was like a poor facsimile of Bucky’s Steve. Bucky felt a twinge of embarrassment at the fact that he’d referred to Steve in the possessive; they’d never really talked about what they were, and Bucky had no right to lay claim to Steve like he was some deserted island and Bucky was an intrepid explorer.

But calling Steve Bucky’s somehow also felt so gorgeously right. And, even if they hadn’t defined it explicitly, Bucky was undeniably Steve’s. It was obvious; Bucky would go to the ends of the Earth and back for Steve. And Steve had always reciprocated Bucky’s feelings in kind, so maybe he felt the same way and was worried about saying it out loud, just like Bucky.

“You don’t need to miss me, Buck. You can text me, and call me, and FaceTime me whenever you want, baby,” Steve mumbled, rubbing a hand down Bucky’s back, bumping each vertebra with the inside of his knuckles.

“But I won’t get to touch you,” Bucky complained, squeezing Steve’s middle.

Steve sighed, leaning his cheek against the top of Bucky’s head. “That’s true. But you’ll be okay. You’re strong.”

Bucky shook his head without moving it away from Steve’s neck. Bucky’s head bumped Steve’s jaw, but Bucky didn’t mind. “It’s not about being okay. It’s about not being great.”

Steve’s hand made its way to Bucky’s hair and stroked it lightly. Bucky loved this, being so close and safe and happy with his Steve. “What do you mean, Buck?” Steve asked into Bucky’s hair.

“Almost everything is okay. But being with you is great.”

It was embarrassing and mushy, but Bucky couldn’t help it. It was true, and Bucky trusted Steve, and that meant telling him the truth. A lie of omission about Bucky’s feelings was still a lie. Steve didn’t seem to mind the mushiness, either; he squeezed Bucky tighter, and kissed the crown of Bucky’s head softly, just the barest hint of pressure.

“See?” Bucky was mumbling into Steve’s neck, but he didn’t mind. It felt nice and warm and safe, like Steve’s arms around him were an impenetrable fortress from everything Bucky didn’t like. “I don’t wanna leave all this. I don’t wanna have to go without being touched by you, even for a few days.” It was sappy and probably overbearing, but it was heartbreakingly honest, and Bucky didn’t regret it a single bit.

“Well, if I touch you enough tonight, maybe you’ll get sick of me and be excited to have a break,” Steve teased.

A broad grin spread across Bucky’s face as the blood left his head with the implications of Steve’s words, and went somewhere a lot further south. “I’m willing to test that hypothesis.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked, a hand teasing its way lower, the pinky brushing the waistband of Bucky’s sweats, silently asking permission.

Even though he was hard now, the mush still persisted; Bucky was thinking about how he loved that he could look like a fucking schlub, with tangled hair and ragged sweats on, and still feel beautiful with Steve. He loved that Steve touched him and held him and stroked his hair. He loved Steve.

He’d known it probably since Yom Kippur, if he was being honest, but he’d only said it to himself for the first time two weeks ago, after telling Steve about his shoulder. It was scary, knowing that he felt like that and Steve maybe didn’t. But it didn’t matter too much, because Steve was safe for Bucky, and Steve would be okay when Bucky told him that Bucky loved him; Steve didn’t get the title of kindest and most patient man ever without reason. If Steve needed time before Bucky’s feelings were reciprocated, Bucky would be happy to give him it. Bucky didn’t even know how to say it, though, or when would be a good time. It felt too soon right now, but Bucky knew he felt it, bubbling out of his being like a can of half opened soda shook too much.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, kissing just under Steve’s ear. “And you can touch my ass.”

Bucky loved that Steve always, always, always asked for consent. And Bucky loved that Steve always listened to him when Bucky gave it to him. Steve listened now, grabbing handfuls of Bucky’s ass and squeezing tightly.

Bucky yelped with surprise, and Steve laughed and just did it more, kneading the fat and muscle and making Bucky giggle. Bucky loved him so, so much.

Bucky leaned forward, flinging his arms around Steve’s neck and kissing him with abandon.

“Bedroom?” Steve asked, his hands still on Bucky, firm and pressing and present and lovely.

“Please,” Bucky mumbled. All the touching had gotten him even harder, and he would love for Steve to suck him off right now.

He felt light and bubbly right then. It felt like there had been some weight that had been tied around his waist at some point, and it had slipped off, leaving Bucky feeling like he was floating even though he was just stumbling into his bedroom hanging off the man he loved. Giddy was a good word for it. Steve made him giddy. It was weird, and felt stupid and girly to admit, even to himself, but it was true. Steve made him giddy.

Bucky smiled against Steve’s jaw, and mouthed at the bone there, just reveling in this feeling of giddiness and light. Steve plopped down onto the bed, yanking Bucky with him, and Bucky gasped at the sudden shifting of his weight from being on the balls of his feet to being on his knees, which were pressed on either side of Steve’s hips, bracketing them.

He was just a few inches shorter than Steve normally, so kneeling while Steve was sitting, hovering above him like this, having to duck down to kiss him, felt weird and awesome and fun. It made it easier for Steve to nip at Bucky’s throat, which Bucky liked, and let Bucky’s hair to fall and curtain around Steve’s face, which Bucky liked even more. Bucky pulled back for an instant, just admiring Steve’s kiss-swollen lips under him, when Steve bit on the soft part of his throat, just above the place his own collarbones met. Steve was sucking a hickey there and making Bucky gasp, and it was perfect.

Bucky blushed as he realized he’d need to wear collared shirts for at least a week, and then groaned in turn since the thought turned him on even more. Steve was marking him, making Bucky even more Steve’s than he already was. God, Bucky loved him.

Enough that Bucky wanted more. More than just sucking Steve off, even though that was incredible in and of itself. More than just cuddling Steve. He wanted Steve to be just . . . closer.

He wanted to have sex with Steve.

Bucky’s blood pressure rose slightly in embarrassment and nerves at the realization. As much as he trusted Steve with his whole entire being, penetrative sex was scary. It could hurt so badly, especially since Bucky hadn’t been penetrated like that since he’d broken up with his ex almost two full years ago, now. He’d fingered himself once or twice while jerking off, but it had always twisted his wrist weird, and he’d gotten uncomfortable with the thought of buying a dildo, since if someone found it, he’d probably die of mortification.

And the idea of being that exposed for another person was scary, too. Bucky had stripped himself bare when he’d shown Steve his shoulder, but this was less shameful, more purposeful, and, supposedly, erotic. What if Steve didn’t think he was sexy there and didn’t want to do anything? The idea of rejection over something that intimate was . . . threatening, to say the least.

But Bucky wanted to do this, take this step with Steve. Steve had always made him feel good, and had listened, and Bucky trusted him more than anyone. And he was going to miss Steve so fucking much over Thanksgiving. If Bucky did this now, tonight, maybe Steve’s whole “you’ll get sick of me” thing would work and Bucky wouldn’t miss him so bad.

But, no matter how he rationalized it emotionally, the idea of Steve fucking him into the mattress was also incredibly erotic for Bucky. He’d been fantasizing about it for literal fucking years, before he’d even met Steve and knew how incredible Steve truly was. Bucky wanted it physically, just like he wanted air or water or Steve’s skin against his.

Bucky ducked down to press one more quick, chaste kiss to Steve’s lips before pulling back. Not completely, of course. Just enough that Bucky could talk without his lips touching Steve. His arms were still slung over Steve’s neck, and Steve’s hands were still gripping his thighs, tight and sure.

“Steve?” Bucky mumbled. He could tell affection was dribbling out of his voice like honey, and it made him blush. He hadn’t even meant for it to happen, but it just did for Steve, easy as water running downhill.

“Yeah?” Steve asked, rubbing his thumbs along Bucky’s thigh.

Bucky swallowed, trying to find the right words. Normally, Bucky would overthink things like this for weeks or months, until it felt like he was drowning, like the myriad of possibilities was gobbling him and spitting him out over and over and over again. But this, he hadn’t overthought. He’d barely even thought in the first place, really, beyond thinking that it might be nice for Steve to fuck him.

“Tonight, um, instead of blowjobs, not that I dislike blowjobs, because, like, wow, are you good at them, and I really do like when you suck me off, and I like sucking you off, too, but, um, instead, could we maybe have sex, please?” The words were rushed and rambled and made Bucky’s whole torso, from his cheeks to his bellybutton, light up in a blush, but at least they were out.

“Huh?” Steve asked, not unkindly, reaching one hand up and tucking Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “Slow down for me, baby.”

Bucky’s gut clenched. He shouldn’t have asked. He should’ve thought that he wanted to have sex, locked it away until after Thanksgiving, and then continued making out with Steve. It was stupid to have sex now. Bucky hadn’t cleaned up, had hair and who knew what else back there. It might be gross and unpleasant for Steve, and Bucky couldn’t bear to do that to the man he loved. So Bucky avoided the question, leaning forward to press a soft, chaste kiss to Steve’s hair line instead of answering.

“Buck?” Steve pressed, pulling back from Bucky’s kiss, but not far enough that Bucky was worried he’d let Bucky fall off the bed. Steve was still there, keeping Bucky safe with the steady grip on his thighs, but there was just three more inches of space between them. Not bad, but not as good as it had been, either. Bucky sought to remedy that as swiftly as possible.

“Never mind,” Bucky said hurriedly, praying to God that Steve would just forget this ever happened and go back to kissing Bucky.

“You wanna have sex with me?” Steve pressed when Bucky tried to duck down and kiss him again. Steve’s eyebrows were raised, and the corners of his mouth were turned down; he was concerned.

“We don’t have to,” Bucky insisted, even though he wanted to so, so bad. “It was stupid. Just forget I said anything.”

“Buck, tell me what you said. I just wanna make sure I heard right.” Bucky was sure Steve was teasing him, but Steve looked serious, all concerned and caring. Bucky loved that look on Steve, but right now, it was just making him feel embarrassed.

Steve wasn’t being enthusiastic about sex, which meant that he probably didn’t want it. Bucky had been rude, unthinking of what Steve wanted. Steve was probably desperately uncomfortable, and it was all Bucky’s fault. He should have fucking thought before he spoke.

“Bucky?” Steve pressed, squeezing Bucky’s thighs.

Bucky just nodded, looking down at Steve’s chest so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact and let Steve see how embarrassed Bucky was by his lack of forethought. “I wanna have sex with you. Penetrative sex. Tonight, if possible.”

Steve’s hands squeezed, one on Bucky’s thigh and one migrating to his waist, rough and tight, but not anywhere near hurting. Steve was always gentle with Bucky. Bucky’s eyes finally flicked up to meet Steve’s; it was easier to, now that Bucky had said what he needed to say, and Steve had clearly had at least some form of positive reaction. Well, positive in that he hadn’t shoved Bucky off of his lap even though he’d now heard Bucky clearly.

“Okay, baby. Are you sure, though? I don’t want you to do this because you feel pressured.” Steve asked, his voice low and tight.

Bucky’s heart was kicking painfully fast against his ribcage. He hadn’t thought Steve would want to do this at all, much less be wondering if Bucky would want it. It seemed obvious to Bucky that he’d want to do this. Steve seemed like he wanted to fuck Bucky, too, though.

Steve’s chest was rising a little bit faster than it had been earlier, and his pupils were huge and soft. He was turned on. But his mouth had a little tightness to it, a tightness Bucky wanted to kiss away, and his eyebrows were furrowed. He was really concerned that Bucky was feeling pressured about this. Steve cared so much about Bucky, and it made Bucky adore him all the more. Bucky had to remedy that concern for anything to happen, though.

“I want to, Steve, really. I want to do this with you.” Bucky’s voice was earnest, and Steve was nodding, eating up Bucky’s every word.

Steve looked down for a minute, glancing where his hips were slotted against Bucky’s. “Promise that you’re doing this for yourself and not just ‘cause you think I want to?” Steve asked after a long moment, making eye contact with Bucky again.

Bucky smiled and pressed his fingertips into Steve’s back lightly. Steve was an over-considerate, sweet as hell idiot. “When have you ever pressured me into anything, Steve?” Bucky asked. “You ask for consent to hold my hand, Steve. You could never pressure me.”

Steve shook his head vehemently. “Not like that, Buck. I mean, do you want to do this or do you think I want to?”

“I want to,” Bucky said firmly, bending over and kissing Steve’s nose lightly. Steve was being overbearing, and it made a spark light in Bucky’s belly that Steve cared about him this much. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll always be honest with you about what I want.” It was true. Bucky could trust Steve, and that meant being honest about he needed and wanted. Bucky could do that. Bucky wanted to do that.

But then Steve tensed under Bucky, and for the barest of moments, Bucky doubted everything he’d ever said to Steve. Steve didn’t want this at all; Bucky was being a bother, and weird, and Steve’s check-ins were just subtle ways of Steve trying to get out of things without hurting Bucky’s feelings. But then, just as suddenly as he’d gotten tensed, Steve was relaxed again, and kissing Bucky’s throat softly.

“Okay, honey. Would you want to top or bottom? I’m fine with either.” Steve pulled back and looked back up at Bucky, stroking his hair lightly with the hand that wasn’t on Bucky’s thigh, keeping Bucky anchored.

Bucky blushed again; this felt so crass, but it had to be discussed. Everything felt like it was happening so fast. Bucky, for the umpteenth time, regretted not even thinking before asking Steve to have sex. “I like bottoming better, but we can do anything you want.” It was embarrassing to have to admit his sexual proclivities, but it mattered to Bucky to be honest. He couldn’t have sex with Steve if he wasn’t honest. After all, it was true; Bucky did like bottoming better. That way he didn’t have to think about managing his own pleasure in comparison with his partner’s pain, didn’t have to worry about making sure a condom was put on right, didn’t have to worry about hurting someone he loved. A little pain was well worth avoiding all that.

“I like topping better, so that works out,” Steve said happily, nipping Bucky’s lips. “Do you want me to stretch you, or do you want to do it yourself?”

Bucky felt himself get even more embarrassed, and looked up at the ceiling so he wouldn’t have to look at Steve’s reaction. “You, please.” He would be so horribly exposed, and that would be uncomfortable, but he wanted to be as close to Steve as possible, and this was the way to do that.

“Don’t get shy on me, now, Buck. It’s okay. Are you sure you wanna do this now? We have all the time in the world.”

“I’m okay,” Bucky mumbled.

“Do you want a minute to, um, clean up?” When Bucky looked down again, feeling reassured enough that Steve didn’t think he was weird, Steve’s cheeks were alight in a blush, and Bucky smiled at him. He looked gorgeous and kissable and he was just so considerate.

Cleaning was embarrassing, but it had to be done, and Steve had advocated for him, so Bucky didn’t have to think. It was exactly what Bucky needed, so Bucky climbed off Steve’s lap and went to the bathroom, not missing how Steve’s eyes were stuck on him. They looked big and nervous, and Bucky prayed to the gods that this would be okay, that Steve wanted this as much as Bucky did.

Bucky locked himself in the bathroom, the skin in between his thighs sorely missing having Steve pressed against it, and cleaned himself as fast as he could. It didn’t feel great, it never did, but he was doing for Steve, so Bucky didn’t mind. Even as he sat there on the edge of the counter, wrist twisted painfully behind himself, Bucky felt good. Steve was so good to him, giving him time and checking in and just being there for Bucky. Bucky wanted to make Steve feel so good, too, to have Steve as close as possible while he came apart. Bucky loved him. It was so simple, but it made Bucky feel warm and tingly all over.

He was excited to fuck Steve. To make love to him, really, even though that phrase sounded like something his grandma would say and it made him want to gag. But it was true. It wasn’t just fucking for Bucky. It was so much more than that.

Bucky pulled his sweats back on and glanced quickly in the mirror. His hair was tangled from Steve tugging at it, his lips were kiss-swollen, and he had a hickey blooming on the hollow of his throat, but he knew that he was beautiful. He was beautiful, and Steve wanted him. He was wanted by Steve Rogers.

Almost better than that, he was about to make love to Steve Rogers.

Bucky smiled to himself, turned around, and unlocked the bathroom door and let himself back into his bedroom.

Steve was leaning back on the bed, his shirt tossed somewhere else, but his jeans still on. He was squeezing himself through his pants, and Bucky blushed fiercely when Steve looked up at him, not moving his own hand. Shameless. Sexy as fuck, too.

“Feel good?” Steve asked, his voice low and rough like the crunch of gravel under hiking boots.

“Feel great,” Bucky said, because he did. He was going to make love to Steve Rogers.

“Are you ready?”

Bucky nodded, and Steve must have taken that as gospel because he squeezed himself one more time before standing up, grabbing Bucky’s hips and positioning him over the bed, splayed out flat on his stomach, fists balled in the comforter under him.

“Where’s your lube, baby?” Steve asked, leaning down and patting Bucky’s thigh through his sweats.

“Top drawer of my dresser. Condoms are there, too.” Bucky’s throat felt all weird and tight and closed. He wanted this, he knew he did, and he was honestly elated that it was happening. But it was still weird and unnerving that it was happening so quickly after he’d asked. He’d expected Steve to make him wait until after Bucky had gotten back from New York, or at least until after dinner. They hadn’t even had a full conversation about it; it had been more like a check-in. Bucky was caught between wanting to slow down, wanting time to breathe and contemplate because sex was a Big Deal, and just wanting Steve inside him already. 

To be fair, even though sex was a Big Deal, Bucky just loved Steve so much that it wasn’t scary in practice, only in theory. It was weird and nice, like getting in a bath that was just a little too hot; uncomfortable on the surface, but deeply right under his skin. Bucky wanted to show Steve how much Bucky loved him, and this was one way. And, even beyond that, Bucky would get to have the privilege of being fucked by Steve Rogers. It was a privilege both because of how hot and perfect and sexy Steve was, and because of how caring and gentle and kind he was; this would be amazing physically and mentally and emotionally. It wasn’t just making Bucky’s day or week or month, but his whole life.

But that didn’t mean that Bucky didn’t want to check in more, though.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, leaning up and looking over his shoulder as Steve pulled the bottle of lube out from Bucky’s dresser.

“Yeah?” Steve asked, plopping down on the bed next to Bucky and stroking Bucky’s back, sweet and soft.

Bucky took a moment to admire the lines of muscle in Steve’s back, the way his ribs moved as he breathed. Steve was so lovely. “You’ll go slow, right? It’s been a little bit.” Bucky sounded sheepish about that last part, but he needn’t have, since Steve just smiled and rubbed Bucky’s lower back harder.

“Always, Buck, always. Just communicate with me, okay?” Steve’s fingertips were just rubbing back and forth over Bucky’s spine, brushing the waistline of Bucky’s pants, but never going further, never touching his ass or dipping under.

“Okay,” Bucky mumbled, feeling anticipation curl in his belly; now that Steve had reassured him one last time, he couldn’t wait for Steve to start fucking him.

“Ready to take off your pants?”

It sounded clinical, and Bucky blushed, but managed to nod and wiggle his hips enough to kick off his sweatpants and underwear and socks in one go without getting off his belly. Now he was naked, and Steve still had his pants on, and it made Bucky feel weird and even more exposed than he already was. “Will you take off yours, too?”

“Yeah, baby, ‘course.” Bucky watched rapturously as Steve undid his belt and shoved his jeans to the floor. Bucky loved the little clink the belt buckle made as it hit the bedframe, and he smiled up at Steve when Steve leaned down to kiss him.

“I’m gonna put a pillow under your hips so you can relax a little, sweetie,” Steve said, leaning over Bucky and grabbing a pillow to shove under Bucky’s hips.

This was scarier that just lying on his stomach; here, the pillow forced his legs to spread a little, and he was exposing the most delicate, sensitive, weird place of him to Steve, a place that looked almost alien in abstract. Bucky buried his face in his arms and waited, eyes shut tight, for Steve to start fingering him, feeling exposed and shy and nervous. There were several long moments of silence before Bucky felt Steve’s warm hand curl over his hip.

“Buck, don’t hide, sweetie. It’s just me.” Steve’s voice was soft and sweet, like Bucky was a wild animal who might run away at the first sign of danger.

Bucky took his head out of his arms and looked over at Steve, who was leaning down close to Bucky, leaning on his own elbow, his face concerned and sweet. “Do you wanna stop?” Steve asked, taking his hand off of Bucky’s waist and reaching over and tucking a loose strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear.

“No,” Bucky said softly. “I’m just scared. I feel so . . . naked.” His throat had a lump in it, a lump that was purely instinct. He wanted this emotionally and mentally and definitely physically, but his body knew, even if he himself, didn’t want to realize it, that he was exposed for Steve, laid completely bare.

Steve chuckled warmly at that and moved his hand back to Bucky’s hip. “I think that comes with the territory, Buck. Is that okay with you?”

Bucky nodded because it was. It was okay and he was just working himself up over something that he desperately wanted for no reason. Steve leaned down in response to Bucky’s nod and kissed Bucky’s cheek. He smelled so nice and sweet, like soap and pine and million good things. Steve was good, and safe, and Bucky trusted him to ends of the Earth. It was all okay. Good, even.

But then Bucky heard the slight snick of the lube being popped open, and Bucky felt his face radiating heat as Steve gently pressed his index finger to Bucky’s pucker. It was real now. He felt like a pendulum, swinging wildly back and forth between “yes, please” and “oh, God, I made a mistake.”

But Steve’s words cut through Bucky’s nerves like a hot knife through butter as he murmured, “Just relax,” and squeezed Bucky’s hip with the hand that wasn’t covered in lube. “I’m gonna take good care of you.”

“I trust you,” Bucky whispered hoarsely, both to himself and Steve, as he swallowed and fought to relax to allow Steve to finger him.

“Thanks, baby. I trust you, too. Ready?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbled. He took a deep breath, and focused on relaxing himself. This wasn’t his first rodeo, but it definitely wasn’t something he did every day, either.

“That’s good, Buck, real good. You’re all soft already. Really good.” Steve’s finger, which had just been resting on the pucker, began to prod a little more insistently, tugging softly at just the edges of Bucky’s rim, not quite penetrating yet, before pulling back. Bucky could hear the visceral squelch of Steve adding more lube, and it made him shiver.

Bucky took a deep breath through his nose when the finger returned. He was gasping as it made its way in, just to the first knuckle. Steve paused there, letting Bucky just feel it and get used to it and breathe through it. “Talk to me, baby. How’re you feeling?”

Bucky shrugged as he took stock of himself. His erection had gone down with the nerves that surrounded being fingered since it might have been painful, so Steve’s finger didn’t feel amazing, but it didn’t hurt either. He was glad Steve had given him time to clean himself and breathe and think; he felt more centered and safe than he probably would have otherwise. Steve’s finger felt foreign, and there was definitely an unfamiliar pressure, but it wasn’t bad. It just kind of was. “It’s okay,” Bucky said, taking stock of all his muscles. They were tight, but they didn’t hurt, and the painkiller for his shoulder must have kicked in, because it didn’t hurt at all.

“Anything hurt? Burn?”

Bucky shook his head. “It’s good. Thanks for going slow.”

“Don’t thank me, baby. I’m not doing anything special. I’m just here, taking good care of you like you deserve,” Steve said, moving his finger just a bit deeper. “Nothing special,” he repeated.

“But you’re special,” Bucky insisted obstinately.

Steve shook his head. “Whatever you say, Buck.” Steve paused, shifting his weight a little so he was sitting over Bucky a bit higher. “I’m gonna go a little deeper. That good?”

Bucky nodded, and took a sharp breath from his nose as Steve began to sink in further. It still didn’t hurt at all, but it felt even weirder than it had before. He began to move it in and out, slow and sweet and soft, and Bucky relaxed into it a little more.

“Two okay?” Steve asked, just resting the tip of his index finger alongside his buried middle.

It should have been; one wasn’t hurting at all, especially since he’d stretched himself a little bit while he was cleaning up. Bucky nodded, and gritted his teeth as Steve inserted two to the first knuckle. It felt so much thicker and fuller and weirder, but it still didn’t exactly hurt. “Talk to me, Buck,” Steve reminded him, rubbing Bucky’s hip with his thumb on the hand not stuck in Bucky’s ass.

That was a weird, heady thought. Steve’s hand was literally in Bucky’s ass. Steve was inside Bucky. No matter how many fans’ hands Steve shook, they’d be touching something that’d been in Bucky’s ass. The lewd thought made Bucky giggle, high-pitched and almost hysterical sounding.

“Buck?” Steve asked, his voice sharp and worried.

“I’m fine,” Bucky said hurriedly. It felt like he was talking through a mouthful of sand. Steve hadn’t even done anything that felt good yet, and Bucky was already practically incoherent, just off of the cognitive aspect, the idea that a part of Steve was inside Bucky. “Full,” he continued, “Weird, too. Not bad.” It felt like Bucky could only speak in fragments. His thoughts were fragmented, too, just drifting and cracking seemingly at random, from Steve’s hand being inside him, to the feeling of lube dripping toward his balls, to how much he loved Steve and would miss him for the next few days.

Steve moved the two fingers in and out, slow and sweet. “Can I scissor them?” Steve asked, his voice sounding like it was a million miles away.

“Please,” Bucky mumbled. He was getting hard again in anticipation of Steve getting to fuck him, and it was distracting him from any aches or anything bad that might be happening from the stretching. Anything Steve did would probably feel good right now.

That is, until Steve began to spread his fingers, and Bucky inhaled sharply, a lightning bolt of sharp pain arching up his spine, reverberating across his pelvis and down his thighs. “Aches,” Bucky gasped, suddenly slammed back down into his own body.

Steve immediately stopped moving, only shifting to bring his fingers together again. “Not there yet, then,” Steve muttered, almost to himself. “Lemme make you feel good, baby.” Steve’s voice was slow and dripping, like honey or melted butter.

Instead of more pain, Steve now pushed the fingers in deeper, and Bucky fucking howled when they brushed his prostate. It felt sweet, almost overly so, like sucking on a piece of banana hard candy, but a million times more intense, making Bucky’s hips jerk against the pillow as pleasure raced through him. The pain was gone, replaced by goodness, by sparks of pure joy racing up from where Steve’s fingers met Bucky’s body and jumping around the room like water on a hot stove.

“That feel good?” Steve asked, rubbing up against that area, the fingers curled.

Bucky choked on his “yes,” but Steve didn’t seem to mind that Bucky was incapable of speech. Steve was just laughing and continuing to rub that spot slowly and methodically.

Bucky was gasping, and he almost screamed when Steve slid his hand in between Bucky and the pillow he was resting on and squeezed his cock. The pleasure from his prostate felt directed now, pushed toward Steve’s other hand on his cock instead of floating up Bucky’s whole body, and, even though there was no lube on his cock, even though dry handjobs almost always sucked, Bucky felt like he floating, oscillating between two perfect points of contact. The contact itself was just pinpricks in comparison to how good it was making Bucky feel, like it was the tip of a huge, swollen iceberg of happiness and want and love.

Steve stretched the hand inside Bucky out again, but now, with the hand on his dick and the fingers shoved against his prostate, it didn’t hurt. Bucky was back to that floaty place he’d been in when Steve had first put his fingers in. Bucky was gasping and moaning and gloriously, amazingly ecstatic.

“Are you good?” Steve asked after a few more minutes.

Bucky nodded. He was. He felt loose and sloppy, which should have felt gross and weird and violating, but instead, with Steve, just felt nice and sweet. “Flip me over. Wanna see you,” Bucky mumbled, practically begging.

Steve’s hands jumped on Bucky’s waist and rolled him over, his hips staying on the pillow. Bucky put his own hands over Steve’s and squeezed them, trying to communicate how much Bucky loved Steve, how much Bucky wanted Steve, without words. Words seemed awfully distant right then, but that didn’t mean that Bucky didn’t want to communicate in some way.

“Talk to me, Buck,” Steve said slowly, like Bucky was an idiot, which, Bucky supposed, he was in that moment.

Bucky fought to obey Steve, to talk to him like Steve wanted, but all Bucky could do was whine and moan. He lifted his tongue, and inhaled like he wanted to speak, but all that came out was a high-pitched whine. It would have been embarrassing if Bucky had enough energy to care. All he wanted was to come, and to come with Steve inside him. Words were corollary to that.

“You’re feeling, good, Buck?” Steve asked. His eyes were lit up, and he was smiling, and rubbing his hands up and down Bucky’s sides. “Just nod, sweetie, you don’t need to talk if you don’t wanna.”

Bucky could nod. He could do that for Steve. He nodded fervently, and reached down and squeezed himself, just so he wouldn’t cry from the sudden lack of Steve’s fingers in him and on him. 

“That’s good, Buck. I’m glad you’re feeling good.” Steve’s hands stopped moving, and squeezed Bucky’s sides instead. “Do you wanna keep going?”

Bucky nodded even harder, until it felt like his head was going to roll off his neck. He was begging, and it should have been pathetic, but Bucky didn’t care. He loved Steve so much, and wanted him so bad.

“Okay, baby.” Steve’s hands lifted, and Bucky wanted to scream at the fact that Steve wasn’t touching him anymore. He needed Steve, he needed an anchor to keep him from drifting off on a cloud of love and horniness and endorphins. He needed his love. Bucky felt upset tearing at his chest, and he keened softly. Steve must have heard, because he was shushing Bucky gently.

“Lemme get a condom on, baby. I’m not going anywhere.” That made Bucky sigh in relief, and he leaned back against the bed. Steve wasn’t going anywhere. Bucky was okay. He was even more okay as he watched Steve roll a condom on himself and spread lube on his cock, making Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head. Every fantasy was coming true all at once, but it was better than fantasy, because it was real and it was Steve and Bucky was deliriously happy.

“All good?” Steve asked sweetly, shifting to lean over Bucky and slot himself in between Bucky’s hips, position flipped from how they were earlier. Steve was leaning on his elbows, his face hovering over Bucky’s, warm and sweet. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s back, rubbing his shoulder blades quickly, a silent begging for Steve to just get in him already.

Bucky nodded, wordless and boneless, desperate and wanton and so painfully in love. He wanted Steve so badly, wanted to feel Steve inside him, see Steve feel good because of Bucky’s body. He wanted Steve to hold him and kiss him as he came. He wanted Steve so bad right then, more than he ever had before, if that were possible. A single word bubbled up through his muddled thoughts, coming out as a whimpered, “Please.”

“Okay, baby, okay.” Steve pressed a quick, warm kiss to Bucky’s lips as he sat back and gripped himself, sliding in slowly and carefully, the hand not on himself pressing on Bucky’s side, firm and reassuring and splendid.

Bucky gripped Steve’s shoulders tightly, pulling him back on top of Bucky’s chest; his shoulders were like Bucky’s anchor in a sea of overwhelming want and pleasure. Steve felt huge within Bucky, huge and solid and there. Bucky sighed, a single, overwhelmed thought crawling out of Bucky’s mind. Steve was in him. Steve was in him. And he loved Steve, and he wanted this so, so much, and it was good. It was so good.

Steve stilled inside Bucky, his hips flush with Bucky’s ass. Steve’s teeth were gritted, and his eyes were fluttering closed, and he looked incredible, blushing and happy. Steve was in Bucky. It wasn’t hurting, probably couldn’t have with how carefully and for how long Steve had stretched him.

“Feeling good?” Steve asked, kissing Bucky’s lips and chin and cheeks, soft and chaste, just peppering little sweetnesses all over Bucky. Bucky felt open and safe and wanted. He did feel good. He felt great. He was floating, the only anchor to Earth being Steve’s lips on his face and his own grip on Steve’s shoulders, and Steve’s dick in his ass.

“I’m good.” Bucky was trying to speak, but he knew it just sounded like a whine.

“That’s good, honey. I’m glad. I’m feeling real good, too. Real good. You’re perfect, Bucky. So gorgeous and perfect.”

Bucky whined again, needy. Steve was feeling good while inside Bucky. It felt almost like a head rush, but all over, from his toes to his scalp to his fingertips to his fucked up shoulder, and everywhere in between.

“Are you ready for me to move, Buck?” Steve asked softly, pressing more kisses to Bucky’s lip lines and his cupid’s bow.

Bucky was. He wanted this so bad. He wanted Steve to come. He wanted to come too, but that felt corollary to the experience of getting to fuck Steve. To make love to him.

Bucky just nodded. He couldn’t form any words without gasping like a desperate fish right now.

“Okay, baby. You’re incredible,” Steve kissed Bucky one more time, firm and square over Bucky’s lips, before pulling back and gently pushing in again.

Bucky gasped, knotting his legs around Steve’s waist, trying to keep Steve as close to him as possible. He knew Steve had to move a little bit to actually fuck Bucky, but that didn’t mean Bucky didn’t ache for contact whenever Steve’s hips weren’t pressed firmly to his own.

Bucky was so in love with Steve. He felt so good right then, heady and delirious and happy. Happy that he was being fucked. Happy that Steve was the one doing it. Happy that he felt so safe. Happy that Steve was tugging on his hair, gentle and sweet and loving, and happy that Steve was murmuring how good Bucky was making him feel.

Bucky couldn’t make out any of the individual words. Steve’s hips were angling carefully, seeking out his prostate and rocking against it. Bucky was in a blaze of pleasure and goodness and love too intense to be able to process any language. So good that Steve had to slow down almost to a stop for Bucky to hear his question.

“Baby, is this good? Is your shoulder getting sore?” Steve’s voice sounded rough and fucked-out and his shoulders were mottled by red where Bucky had been gripping him. Steve was even more gorgeous now than ever.

Which made his question even more stupid. Bucky was being fucked by Steve, and Steve wanted him to think about his shoulder?! It was ludicrous and Bucky tried to tell Steve by whining and bucking his hips were Steve was seated deep inside him. “I’m fine. More, please, more, more, more, more,” Bucky chanted when Steve didn’t move, words coming back only out of necessity.

Steve smiled. His hair was starting to get slick with sweat, and his pupils were blown huge. His lips were shiny with spit and swollen from being kissed so much. “Okay, sweet thing. I can do ‘more.’”

He wrapped a hand around Bucky’s thigh and tugged, pulling Bucky up to meet his thrusts as his other hand wrapped around Bucky’s cock and stroked roughly, sweat-slick and perfect. Bucky hiccupped something between a moan and a sob and tangled his fingers into Steve’s hair, tugging it and begging for something he couldn’t identify. He just felt so good, sweet and sticky with sweat, and so in love. He had to tell Steve, and soon.

But for now, Steve fucking him was more than good enough, so he just swallowed roughly and let Steve fuck him into orgasm.

Bucky went first, all his muscles drawing tight and clenching and gasping. He felt like he was submerged in molasses; all his movements were slow and intense and he couldn’t get a full breath in. He was so fucked-out that he barely was able to appreciate when Steve followed soon after, groaning into Bucky’s shoulder and stilling inside him, twitching minutely and panting roughly.

“Good?” Steve panted after a minute of just plastering himself over Bucky, sweating and cursing and holding him while still buried inside him.

“Good,” Bucky replied, blushing at how rough and fucked-out his voice sounded. He must have been screaming more than he’d realized.

“Okay. Be right back.” Steve pulled back, pulling himself out of Bucky, and Bucky wanted to cry out. He felt so empty and fucked-out and tired. So tired. So tired that he couldn’t help but shove his face into Steve’s chest when Steve came back and wrapped Bucky into a tight hug after he’d yanked off the condom and threw it into the waste bin.

“Steve?” Bucky mumbled, half into Steve’s shoulder and half into his armpit.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I love you, Steve. I love you so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end! Two more chapters, and then an epilogue!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of self-deprecating and intense thoughts in this chapter, so if you're sensitive to that, please proceed with caution!

Steve’s body was suddenly tense under Bucky’s and Bucky cringed internally. How could he do that?! Drop the “I love you” bomb on Steve with no thought for tact or reasoning or timing. With no thought, really. No thought for the second time that one night, first with sex and now with saying “I love you.” Both of those things required forethought, copious, frustratingly thorough forethought. But Bucky had done absolutely none of that.

“Fuck, Steve, I’m sorry,” Bucky said hurriedly, shifting away from the comfort and safety of Steve’s chest to sit up straighter and make sure that Steve could see Bucky’s eyes and know that Bucky was serious, but leaving some of his weight on Steve’s thighs because, despite his shame, Bucky couldn’t bear to leave Steve completely. “It just slipped out. You don’t need to, um, reciprocate if you don’t, like, feel that way.”

He sounded weird and stupid and he was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was naked in Steve’s lap and telling Steve that Bucky loved him. All around bad.

“Bucky,” Steve said incredulously.

“Fuck, Steve just ignore me,” Bucky begged. How could he have done that?! How could he have dropped a bomb on Steve like that?!

“Bucky, I’m not gonna ignore you.” Steve was talking slow and firm, like Bucky was too stupid to understand him normally. Which, Bucky supposed he was, since he hadn’t been able to think to himself that huh, maybe now is not the time to be telling someone you love them, especially since you haven’t even formally defined your relationship.

“Not me. Just the last part.” It was painfully awkward. The air felt thick and weird and Bucky felt overexposed and so, so naked. Physically, yes, but emotionally, too. He’d just laid his soul bare with one fucking sentence. A fucking sentence he hadn’t even thought about saying. He wanted to get dressed, to hide his body and his feelings, and, well, his everything. Steve may have been safe for Bucky, but exposing all of Bucky’s feelings like that still felt wholly unsafe and terrifying, almost like skydiving; you knew you had a parachute, that you were okay, but you still wanted to shit your fucking pants out of fear.

“Um, Bucky, I don’t think I can.” Steve wasn’t looking at Bucky, was staring into his own lap instead. He sounded tired, and it felt like all the air had been punched out of Bucky’s lungs. Bucky hadn’t meant to make Steve so exhausted through just a few words. It’d just slipped it out, had felt easy to say, so he’d said it. It was almost a Freudian slip, really. Except most Freudian slips didn’t make the people Bucky loved so uncomfortable so as to be exhausted by the mere idea of addressing the slip at all.

Bucky felt uncomfortable, and his whole body was hot in an embarrassing blush that Bucky hoped was too dim to see in the dying light of the sun through the window, but knew it wasn’t. It wasn’t even the sweet, aw, Steve blush that he got half the time. This was just red-hot embarrassment and shame, spilling down Bucky’s cheeks and chest all the way to his fucking navel. It was weird, and gross, and was probably making Steve feel even more uncomfortable than he already was. Bucky needed to cover up, and fast, both to hide his blush and embarrassment, and to give Steve some space, which was clearly needed by the way Steve was refusing to make eye contact.

“I’m gonna go get dressed,” Bucky mumbled lamely, climbing off Steve’s lap and pulling on a clean pair of boxers and the hoodie he’d gotten from Steve the day he’d been rained on, trying to wring just a little bit of comfort and reprieve from his embarrassment from it. Steve hadn’t moved at all, didn’t seem at all improved by Bucky’s increased distance. Bucky figured at first that it was the hoodie, that Steve didn’t want any reminder of the fact that Bucky loved him, but Steve wasn’t looking at Bucky at all, couldn’t have even noticed the hoodie.

Instead, Steve’s hands were folded in his lap, the fingers twined and twisted into an uncomfortable-looking knot. Steve really was uncomfortable, and was trying not to hurt Bucky by running away then and there. Bucky had clearly fucked up, and he ran a hand through his still-sex-sweaty hair, trying desperately to think of a way to fix this, to take back what he’d said coolly and carefully.

“Steve, I take it back. Completely. Forget I ever said anything.” Bucky tried for the obvious, easy route, but failed to keep the begging out of his voice, and Steve was clearly unmoved, not reacting at all to Bucky’s words except for a slight tensing in his shoulders that Bucky couldn’t help but think of as a flinch. Bucky felt all hazy and fuzzy at the edges, like someone had stuck chewing gum in between the gears of his brain. He couldn’t think of a way to fix his gigantic fuck-up, except to violently regret ever saying he’d loved Steve.

Steve was still silent, still staring at his knotted fingers contemplatively. He must have been so uncomfortable, and it made Bucky’s insides ache.

“What if we just ordered a pizza for dinner? I-if you want, of course. I’ll shut up, and-and you can just eat the pizza and ignore me. And I’ll pay, of course. Do you want garlic? You can get double. Um-” Bucky cut himself off; he had told Steve that Bucky loved him out of fucking nowhere, and was trying to fix it by buying the man, who was richer than Bucky could possibly comprehend, a fucking pizza. Bucky was a fucking idiot. A fucking idiot who needed to stop talking and, for the first time that evening, think.

Steve was just sitting there, looking at the inside of his own wrist intently, like it held some weird message that would explain all of Bucky’s erratic behavior.

Bucky needed to fix this, needed to let Steve know that it didn’t matter, that he could just forget Bucky’s stupid words forever. “Steve, I’m so sorry, I-”

“Did you mean it?” Steve’s voice was sharp, but his eyes were soft and round and profoundly sad. He was almost definitely sad that he had ever done anything with Bucky. His hands were still tangled, and Bucky wanted to hold them, to stroke the bony knuckles and fix the pain his own stupid, stupid fucking mouth had caused.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Bucky breathed out in a rush, caught just a bit off guard by the question. What did it matter if he meant it or not? What mattered was whether or not Steve would be able to just forget it, forever and ever, until they were old and gray and it was merely a funny story to tell their grandchildren. “You can forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

“Bucky, I can’t just forget it,” Steve said, untangling his hands and pressing the palms together instead. “Talk to me, Buck. Did you mean it?”

“I might have thought I meant it, but it didn’t actually mean anything. You know, heat of the moment and whatever.” Bucky hated himself for ever making this be a conversation. It was stupid. Bucky was stupid for fucking running his big mouth.

“You’re avoiding the question. If you meant it, it wasn’t the ‘heat of the moment,’” Steve pressed firmly, his mouth pulled into a thin, disappointed frown.

Bucky felt a blush light up his cheeks, and he tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie. He was uncomfortable, and felt bad, and wanted Steve to believe that it was an accident, that he hadn’t meant it all and had just been high on endorphins and oxytocin and orgasm. But that would be a lie, and Bucky would never be able to do that to Steve.

Bucky paused and swallowed. He owed this honesty to Steve. “I meant it. But I didn’t mean to tell you just yet. It just slipped out,” Bucky said softly, trying and failing to keep himself from fiddling anxiously with the sleeves of his hoodie. There was a lump in his throat, and it was aching badly. Bucky was so mortified. Even the fact that Steve was here, making everything more okay than it would have been, didn’t help with how badly Bucky felt. He was embarrassed and mortified and shy and so, so regretful.

Steve wasn’t looking at Bucky anymore. Instead, he was leaning his forehead into his hand and directing his gaze into Bucky’s comforter. “Oh, Bucky,” Steve said softly, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, my God.”

Bucky felt a lump form in his throat, tight and pressing and painful. Steve was so upset with him, so disgusted that Bucky had meant it, Steve couldn’t even look at Bucky. Bucky wanted to go back in time just a few minutes, back when Steve was in him and they were close and he hadn’t fucking told Steve that he was fucking in love with him. He wanted to go back there and shove a whole roll of duct tape over his own mouth.

“St-”

“Bucky, you can’t.” Steve wasn’t looking at Bucky, but his voice was stern and raw. Hurting. “You can’t love me, Buck. You can’t.”

“But, Steve . . .” Bucky let himself trail off. He did. He did love Steve. He had absolutely no defense. He’d hurt Steve so bad, and it made Bucky feel like collapsing into a ball on the floor.

“No.” Steve looked back up at Bucky now, and his eyes were wet, his lips trembling. He was so freaked out by Bucky that he was fucking crying. Because Bucky had freaked him out, had made the most lovely, loving, perfect person in the world so disgusted and nervous that he was crying. “You can’t.”

Bucky tried to swallow against the tears that wanted to fill his eyes, both in shame and disgust at himself and in sympathy with how overwhelmed Steve must have been feeling, but all it did was make him feel like he was choking. He didn’t know what to say to the idea that he “couldn’t” love Steve. He did. It was done. He’d told Steve that he’d take it back, that it didn’t have to be a whole thing, to make Steve feel better. But Bucky couldn’t take it back, not really. And it was a whole thing, because Bucky loved Steve and Steve obviously didn’t feel the same way. It hurt, sharp like glass, right under Bucky’s sternum up through the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t lie to Steve now, though, even if it would make feel Steve feel better. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. The cat was already out of the bag, after all. “I do, though.”

Steve was suddenly standing, pulling on his boxers from where they’d been discarded on the floor. “Bucky, this-” Steve cut himself with a firm shake of his head and tugged on his jeans.

“I know it’s weird and early, but I can’t help it, Steve,” Bucky said quickly, trying desperately to explain, to keep Steve from running away like Steve so clearly wanted to. “You obviously don’t need to say anything back. Just ignore it. For now, at least.”

“Bucky-”

“We can just act like it never happened. I’ll order the pizza, and by the time I’m done we can just forget this whole thing ever happened.” Bucky was begging for Steve to listen to him, to forget everything from the last five minutes, but Steve was unhearing, just shaking his head, not angry, but not calm either.

“Bucky, please,” Steve said firmly, sitting back on the bed and exhaling painfully slowly. “I don’t- I don’t know what to do, Buck.”

“Just forget it, Steve. It doesn’t matter.” But it did matter. Because Bucky loved Steve, and Steve didn’t love Bucky, and Bucky’s world was crashing down around him.

“It does matter, Bucky, because it’s your love, and you matter.” Steve’s voice was steadier now, less panicked, but Bucky couldn’t help but notice the tension in Steve’s shoulders, the way he kept tensing and untensing his hands, the way tears hadn’t stopped streaming down his face, silent but steady. “You matter, Buck. You matter to me.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugged.

“Fuck, Bucky, you do matter. I can’t fucking do this to you. Will you sit with me?” Steve folded his legs up under himself on the bed, going so slowly that it would be comical if Bucky wasn’t so grateful that Steve was obviously taking care not to startle Bucky.

Bucky felt weird and shy and gangly, despite having too much solidity to him to ever be considered gangly. He didn’t understand the fact that Steve cared so much about whether or not Bucky mattered, nor what Steve needed him sitting for. Nor did he understand what, exactly, Steve was doing to him emotionally, this swelling, ripping feeling in his chest. But Bucky loved and trusted Steve, so he copied Steve and sat on the corner of the bed near the door, cross-legged and hunched forward. Nervous. Protective.

Steve was mirroring Bucky, his eyes focused on Bucky’s hands like he wanted to grab them but was afraid of touching. Bucky made Steve afraid to touch him. Bucky hated himself for that, more than he had hated anything in a long time.

“I fucked up, Buck.” Steve was talking slow, like Bucky was some sort of stupid child.

Bucky shook his head. It was just like Steve to blame himself for something that was no one but Bucky’s fault. “No, you didn’t. I was the fucking idiot who said he loved you when it wasn’t nearly the right time. I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbled.

“Bucky, no. You were just telling me how you feel. That’s good. It’s so good that you do that. You’re so good.” The tears were coming faster, and Bucky leaned forward to wipe them up, despite being confused about why Steve was telling him all this, but Steve recoiled like he’d been burned. It made Bucky’s stomach ache, the outright rejection feeling like a javelin in his stomach and leaving his mouth feeling like it was glued shut.

“Okay, Buck. Okay. I don’t know how to fucking start. Um, it started as a misunderstanding, but I knew what was up, and I should have talked to you. I shouldn’t have let you think you were in love with me.” Steve said “love” like it was a dirty word, and it cut into Bucky, sharper and deeper than he’d thought possible through just words, especially relatively gentle words like these.

“It’s not a ‘think’ kinda thing, Steve. I do.” Bucky was shaking his head. It was just one simple slip-up. Why had Bucky chosen this thing to slip up with?! Bucky confessing his love shouldn’t have been a thing at all. It should’ve been months later, and Steve should have laughed and said, “duh.” It shouldn’t have hurt like this Why couldn’t Bucky just shut his fucking mouth?!

And what did Steve mean about a misunderstanding? It felt like there punctuation marks swirling around Bucky’s head, question marks and exclamation points and ellipses, but never a period. Never a real, calm break in the rising tide of anxiety in Bucky’s chest

“No, Bucky, you don’t. You just think you do, and that’s okay-”

“I do, Steve. I know it’s too soon, but I do. But we can just leave that on the back burner for right now. It’s okay.” Bucky put his hands in between the two feet too many of space between them, silently begging for Steve to take Bucky’s hands, to hold him, to make this okay. But Steve just glanced down at Bucky’s hands and shut his eyes tight. That stung, and Bucky retracted his hands and wrapped them around his middle instead, shy and regretful and feeling so, so stupid.

“Bucky, whether or not you love me isn’t the point.” Steve paused and swallowed and swiped a hand through his hair, making it stick straight up. It would’ve been cute if Steve hadn’t been crying. “I- I did something bad, Bucky. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry. We should have talked about this earlier. Fuck, we should’ve talked about this before I ever kissed you. I’ve been stringing you along and not talking to you, and I’m sorry, Bucky. Fuck.”

“Steve, you haven’t been stringing me along at all,” Bucky explained, confused as to why Steve was saying all this when he should have just been yelling at Bucky for being unable to get a lid on his feelings. Steve shouldn’t be apologizing. It didn’t make any sense.

“Yes, I have, Bucky. I- you’re . . .” Steve trailed off, staring at the comforter again.

“Steve, you’ve been amazing. You are amazing. You haven’t been anything less than perfect.” Bucky didn’t understand why he had to comfort Steve, especially when Steve should have just been telling Bucky to get a fucking grip, but that in no way meant that Bucky wasn’t going to comfort Steve, anyway. Steve was so good. He never deserved to feel as upset as he clearly did right now, lost in thought and eyes round and wet with tears.

“I’m not, Bucky. I’m nowhere close. I’m a fucking asshole.” Steve’s voice was shaking, and Bucky reached out a hand to put on Steve’s knee, trying to comfort him, to calm him down. Steve recoiled at the touch again, and it made Bucky’s sides ache with regret and hurt and rejection.

“Steve, you’re not. You’re good, and caring, and sweet-”

“Bucky, stop,” Steve said, trying to interrupt Bucky, but Bucky wouldn’t let him.

“-and funny, and gentle, and-”

“Buck, no.”

“-creative, and talented, and adorable, and-”

“I’ve been sleeping with other people, Buck! Since before I kissed you, and after. At least once or twice a week. More, most of the time.”

That shut Bucky up.

It was a slap to the face. A punch to the groin. The shock of being dunked in ice cold sea water. Barbed wire being wrapped around Bucky’s throat and tugging him into the dirt. The feeling of shrapnel being buried into his flesh a hundred thousand million times over in the space of the few seconds it took Steve to finish speaking. “What?” Bucky said, because there was nothing else to say; he was so incredulous and surprised and taken aback. Steve, Bucky’s Steve, had been fucking other people the whole time he’d ostensibly been with Bucky. It didn’t add up. Steve would never do that to him.

“I’ve been sleeping with maybe a dozen other people, Buck, since I kissed you.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathed, because the chewing gum on the gears of his brain had apparently migrated to his mouth, and it was impossible to speak real words.

“But I stopped, Buck. I stopped after . . . after I sucked you off that first time.” Steve’s voice was shaking, and tears were rolling down his cheeks faster and faster, but Bucky barely noticed, choosing to stare down into his own lap instead. He felt weird, and alone and isolated. Mostly just weird, though.

Bucky didn’t understand. He trusted Steve. He loved Steve. The idea that Steve didn’t feel the same, had never felt the same and probably never would, was incongruous and confusing and made the pit of Bucky’s stomach ache. He’d been such an idiot. Bucky always overthought everything, but he hadn’t thought this, the reality in front of him, would ever be the case. He didn’t think Steve could ever do that to him. He didn’t think Steve was even capable of doing something like this. Steve was a mensch. Or, he should have been.

Instead, he was just . . . a regular guy, who wanted to get his rocks off with anyone he could. Why would Steve do that to him? Bucky’s Steve would never hurt him like that. But this was also Bucky’s Steve, and he had fucked other people. They might not have defined their relationship, but going on regular dates and sleeping together and fucking cat-sitting for the other wasn’t not defining their relationship either. Bucky thought he’d been worth more than that to Steve.

The thought felt cold and empty. He’d thought he’d been worth more, but, obviously, he hadn’t been. It hurt so bad that Bucky didn’t even feel it as a whole, felt little disjointed pieces everywhere, instead, incoherent and confusing.

“Why? And why tell me now?” Bucky asked after a long moment. His voice was steadier than it had ever been around Steve, just a little wobble from his constant hiccupping on the end. It was the voice he’d use to talk to a colleague, or a stranger he’d bumped into on the subway. It was the voice Bucky used when he was hiding a panic attack.

“It’s just how I’ve always been, what I’ve been doing since college. I saw you, and I wanted you because you’re gorgeous and smart and funny, and I didn’t think we were serious, and then we were, and then I didn’t want to hurt you. But now you think you love me, and it just made me realize how fucking in over my head I am, how badly I treated you. God, Buck, I’m sorry.”

Steve was still talking, but the words were going in one of Bucky’s ears, rattling around and hitting and damaging every good thought Bucky had ever had about Steve, of which there were a lot, before leaking out the other ear like water through a cracked hose with shitty water pressure.

Bucky trusted Steve. Steve had been playing Bucky since day fucking one. It didn’t make sense. Bucky had thought they were on the same page, but they weren’t. Weren’t even in the same book.

A drop of water hit Bucky’s thigh where it was curled up under him, and he looked at it absently. There must have been a leak in the ceiling or something. Probably from the hot water heater, since it was all warm. Oh, there was another one. And a third, in the same spot and running into a rivulet that fell on the comforter with a quiet thud, like a clod of dirt being thrown on a coffin.

Bucky’s chest suddenly hurt, distracting himself from the leak in the ceiling, and he realized with a start that he hadn’t taken a breath since Steve had said the word “sleeping,” but he couldn’t force himself to inhale again. He didn’t want to inhale. He didn’t want to be.

He loved Steve. He loved Steve, but he had been nothing to Steve this whole time. A distraction. A placeholder for some other fuckbuddy, probably. Some sick form of entertainment. Bucky should have seen this coming. Steve didn’t become one of People’s Most Eligible Bachelors in Hollywood five years in a row for nothing.

Steve was still talking, and it made Bucky’s chest feel even tighter with the need to breathe, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe anymore. Maybe if he’d just hold his breath long enough, Steve would realize that he’d made a mistake, that he’d been rehearsing lines for some weird play about sexual depravity and that he’d accidentally forgotten to give Bucky the script.

Another few drops landed on Bucky’s thigh, and he stared at them. He had never noticed a leak in the ceiling before. Pepper would probably be pissed at management. She was always so nice to Bucky. Even gave him the day off to spend with Steve. That was, in retrospect, probably a mistake on her part. Bucky wondered absently whether Pepper was one of Steve’s fuckbuddies. That was a funny mental image; Pepper was so skinny and Steve was so broad.

The drops were starting to come quicker, and Bucky flicked them off of him, feeling overwhelmed by the quiet way they ran down his thigh. Who was running water through that pipe right now?

A sudden hiccup made Bucky inhale again, sharply. Air rushed into Bucky’s lungs, and Bucky kind of hated the relieved feeling in his chest. More drips landed on his thigh. He felt one get stuck on his jaw, and Bucky realized with a start that he was crying. Quite harshly, judging by the way he was hiccupping. Bucky shrugged. Not much he could do about it.

Steve was still talking, and it was giving Bucky a migraine. Or maybe it was his own sobs doing that. Bucky didn’t know, nor did he really care. He didn’t really care about much in front of him at that point, only wondering absently if he’d remembered to change Eustace’s litter the previous night.

“Bucky, baby-”

That made Bucky come back down, suddenly, harshly, bringing him back to Steve. “I’m not your baby, Steve. I’m . . . I’m not your anything, I guess.” That made Bucky laugh, or cackle, really, high-pitched and crazed and hurt. Because he did hurt, even if he simultaneously felt numb to the worst of it. And, unlike his shoulder, he hadn’t had a decade of the same pain conditioning him to just get used to it.

“Bucky, no, I stopped because you are-”

“Steve,” Bucky sighed. He felt so blindsided, so sidelined. He didn’t understand anything that was in front of him beyond the fact that Steve had dicked him over. Heh, dicked him over. Because he was dicking people other than Bucky. That was a solid pun, and it made Bucky chuckle to himself, the laugh only marginally more sane-sounding than his cackle. Bucky supposed the laughing was probably due to shock. More than shock, though, Bucky felt anger. At Steve, but mostly at himself. He should have seen this coming. Steve had been too good to be true, so he couldn’t have been true. It was simple, and elementary, and Bucky should have fucking seen it coming. “You can stop,” Bucky continued in that same careful, measured voice. “Save it for the Academy.”

And Steve should have been saving it for whatever Oscar-winning performance he had next. It wasn’t gonna work on Bucky. Not anymore. Bucky wasn’t going to fucking fall for Steve’s whole act ever again.

Bucky looked back up at Steve now. It wasn’t Steve’s fault. Not really. Steve was gonna do what he was gonna do. It was really Bucky’s fault for not seeing it, for not doing anything about it. Even now, just thinking it through one more time, the pieces were falling into place: the way Bucky could only hang out with Steve on Tuesdays and Saturdays, never any other days. Steve was probably fucking other people every other day of the week. The way Steve has never even tried to define their relationship beyond wanting to “kiss Bucky more.” The way Steve would tense up whenever Bucky said he trusted Steve. The way he was an expert at throwing frat-type parties, despite being in his mid-thirties. Even his douchey fucking sports car now made sense.

Clearly oblivious to all of his own tells and still smarting from Bucky’s last comment, Steve was looking incredulous, eyebrows raised and mouth agape like a bad caricature of the Steve Bucky loved. That’s what this Steve was, Bucky supposed. Same body, same past, but just a bad facsimile of Bucky’s Steve. The Steve Bucky had built up in his own head, really. Because this was the real Steve. Shitty and two-timing and, apparently, endlessly horny.

Bucky was fucking smart. He should have seen this coming. And, now that he hadn’t, now that he had been blindsided, he had to deal with the consequences coolly and level-headedly, like an actual adult instead of the lovesick puppy he had let himself become. “Okay,” Bucky said smoothly. First things first, Bucky needed to worry about safety. “Are you clean?” Bucky asked, calm and impersonal. He was a telemarketer, and Steve was some overly emotional person who had picked up the phone and was crying into it. The two things were unrelated, and didn’t affect Bucky.

“Fuck, Bucky, yes, I’m always safe.” Steve’s voice was wracked with hurt, but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to care. Right now, he just needed to deal with this, and dealing with it meant not getting distracted by something stupid like being in love with Steve, or something stupider like how much Steve had hurt him.

“I don’t know why I’m asking you, actually,” Bucky said with that same impersonal voice with an edge of a crazed giggle tacked on at the end. “Not like you’d tell the truth.”

Steve gasped, his breath choking in his throat, but Bucky still didn’t care. Steve didn’t care about Bucky, anyway, so why should Bucky care about Steve?

Bucky didn’t want to ever see Steve’s fucking face again. He didn’t want to care, and caring meant noticing the way Steve’s brows curved or his nose was shaped, which was inevitable if Bucky looked at Steve. Bucky wanted Steve away.

“Bucky, I’d never do that you. I’ll always make sure you’re safe.”

“Steve, I told you to save it for the Academy. It’s not gonna fucking work on me anymore.” Bucky paused, watching the hurt blossom on Steve’s face and feeling nothing more than mild disinterest. “So, I’ll get tested once I get back home, then. Can’t wait to explain that to my mom. I gotta call Pepper, too. I can’t fucking watch any more of that fucking movie; I don’t wanna see you anymore, so I’ll need to get her a new consultant. I bet I can find some bored fucking grad student to do it.” Bucky was more talking to himself than Steve, and was bothered to find Steve hadn’t moved. Bucky didn’t want to see Steve ever again, and had hoped Steve would have left by now. Bucky didn’t need a reminder of his own idiocy.

“Why are you still here?” Bucky asked, noticing how cold his voice sounded and finding that he didn’t care too much. “Go away. You did it. You fucked me. You can go back to fucking whoever you want now. No need to pretend to be faithful anymore. Cat’s out of the bag.”

Steve flinched at that, and Bucky felt his stomach lurch in pain, but he ignored it. More drops were landing on his thigh, and he was still hiccuping hoarsely, but Bucky knew it was his body’s natural reaction to visceral, searing pain. But, even though his body was reacting on instinct, Bucky knew he could ignore it. He’d been ignoring pain for years, anyway.

“Bucky, I care about you,” Steve said, and Bucky noticed Steve was crying, too. It was almost funny how upset Steve looked. He really was a good actor. It couldn’t have been real. If it had been real, Steve wouldn’t have cheated on Bucky in the first place.

“No, you don’t. Go home, Steve. I don’t wanna see you anymore.” Bucky didn’t. He didn’t need to be reminded of how much of an idiot he’d let himself be by letting Steve play him like this. Bucky didn’t need Steve anywhere near him.

“Bucky, I can’t go home right now.”

That didn’t click with Bucky. Steve had gotten what he wanted. There was no reason for him to stay. There was no reason for him to keep hurting Bucky like this. He’d done what he’d done. There was no reason other than cruelty to stay here.

“Then go to one of your fuckbuddies’ houses. I don’t care, Steve. Just get the fuck out.” Bucky wanted to be screaming, wanted his voice to be shrill and his throat to be aching, but he held himself back. Steve wasn’t worth screaming at. Bucky obviously wasn’t worth anything to Steve, so Bucky shouldn’t expend the energy needed to scream at him, anyway.

Bucky just felt so, so tired. There were more drips, and more hiccups, and Bucky just wanted to stop and go to sleep. He wanted to take a shower, too. He felt dirty. His seventh-grade health class, the idea that if you sleep with one person, you’re sleeping with everyone they’ve ever slept with, kept coming through Bucky’s brain and assaulting him. He wanted to bleach his skin. He felt grimy, and it was Steve’s fault. Bucky needed Steve gone.

“Bucky, I can’t leave you alone like this.” Steve’s voice, despite the tears streaming down his face, was infuriatingly calm.

“You already did, Steve. Get the fuck out!” Bucky was yelling now. He couldn’t help it. He felt dirty and gross and he wanted Steve to get away from him.

“Bucky, lower your voice. Someone’s gonna call the cops.”

“I’ll call them on you if you don’t get the fuck out of my house, Steve.”

Steve launched up on his feet now, holding his hands out in front of him like he was showing he was unarmed. He was unarmed, though, Bucky figured. Steve’d dropped his best weapon, his best bomb already. There wasn’t much else for him to do to Bucky. “Bucky-”

“Fucking go, Steve. I assume you know the way out, yeah? Been here enough, taken advantage of me enough to know?” Bucky’s voice was cold, and he wasn’t sure if he was saying it because it was true or because he wanted to hurt Steve back. Maybe both.

More drips were landing, and Bucky wanted to claw his way out of his fucking skin. They were distracting and tickling and sticky when they dried, making him feel even dirtier.

“Bucky, please-”

“I’m sorry I ever loved you,” Bucky seethed. That definitely was to hurt Steve, and Bucky thought it would feel good, but it didn’t. It just made Bucky feel more disgusting and even sadder.

But, even if it made Bucky feel worse, it also made Steve go, hunched over and sad and obviously embarrassed, as he pulled on his shirt silently. “Bucky, I’m sorry,” Steve said softly.

Bucky didn’t even bother looking at Steve, training his gaze on the floor instead. “Bye, Steve,” he said firmly.

Bucky half-expected Steve to try to comfort Bucky again, but Bucky heard Steve’s quiet footsteps pad away and the front door shut softly. Steve was gone, and Bucky was alone.

Bucky was hurting. He wanted to scream, to chase Steve down and claw his fucking eyes out, to choke Steve. Bucky wanted to sleep. But, most of all, Bucky wanted Steve to come back and hold him. The thought was embarrassing, and gross, and a definite regression. Shameful, even.

But Bucky couldn’t do any of that. Instead, he just needed to deal. He felt disgusting, sweaty and tear-stained and dirty. He needed to clean. That was a good place to start dealing.

He began with himself, top to bottom in the shower, washing out the lube with a rough finger. He didn’t care enough to be gentle with himself anymore. Then he started on the apartment as a whole. If he was leaving tonight and never coming back like he planned, the place needed to be pristine. Bucky dusted everything, scrubbed the fucking walls with a sponge, throwing his belongings into a trash bag with abandon.

He brushed Eustace’s fur since he had been touched by Steve endless times and didn’t deserve to be dirty like that, tried to find his fucking collar since Eustace only really needed the thing when he was traveling and never wore it at home, but Bucky couldn’t fucking find it. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to care, though. He didn’t think he’d ever care about anything ever again.

He avoided the bedroom until he couldn’t any longer. He grabbed the sheets and the comforter and the fucking pillows and dumped them in the bathtub with half a bottle of detergent so he could clean them himself and make sure they were truly washed, scrubbing and sudsing and wringing them out until his shoulder was singing with pain so intense that it almost rivaled the ache in Bucky’s chest.

Only then, up his armpits in sudsy sheets, did Bucky let himself feel anything other than anger. He let himself feel his pain. He loved Steve, and that was meaningless to Steve. Less than meaningless to Steve.

He was less than meaningless to Steve.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting! I'm so sorry to toy with your emotions like this!

Bucky slammed his hand around the nightstand, trying his best to find his alarm clock’s snooze button without unearthing his face from the pillow. He’d finally had a dreamless sleep, and was not eager to interrupt it for something as stupid as leading a glorified fucking field trip to the museum because he couldn’t be bothered to come up with a real lesson plan. But the alarm wouldn’t stop blaring, and Bucky couldn’t find the fucking snooze button, and his shoulder was going to cramp up if he kept flexing it like that, so he reluctantly dug his head out of the pillows and slammed his fist on the alarm clock to turn it off.

He sat up and stretched, grimacing at the way his back popped when he moved it in a certain way. He slid off the bed and trudged to the bathroom. His thighs were sore from spending nearly three hours at the gym over the past twenty-four hours, but, as he caught a sidelong glance of himself in the bathroom mirror, he couldn’t complain about the results. He was more lithe than he’d been while he was serving, but was lined with corded muscle in the same way, down his thighs and back. He was even starting to have something resembling abs. It didn’t hurt that he had way less fat than he’d ever had before, since he hadn’t been really hungry for almost four months, since he’d come back to New York.

Bucky ran a hair through his hair as he flicked on the shower. The hair was greasy because Bucky hadn’t bothered to wash it after getting home from the gym the night before, and because there was just more of it now; he’d let it get longer than he’d ever had it before, stretching down to cover his collarbones. His beard had grown out too, past the point of just being stubble that hadn’t been shaved in a few too many days. It was now a full beard, one that was long enough that he’d had to buy a bottle of beard oil a few weeks back to keep himself from looking like a homeless lumberjack. He did look kind of homeless; long, tangled hair and a thick beard that, despite Bucky’s best attempts to comb through it, was a mess that resembled overgrown brambles more than it did a beard.

Everything considered, he looked good, though. His hair was long enough to hide his shoulder if he bent his head a certain way, he was skinny and muscled, and he had a little more tan to his skin than he’d had in years, despite it being March in New York. He’d been taking more walks lately, since there was just less to do. He’d thrown out his TV back in January, after seeing Steve on some talk show a few too many nights in a row the week Steve’d hosted SNL. Bucky’d deleted his Twitter and his Instagram and Facebook, too, a few weeks later, after he’d realized that, since unfollowing every fan account, the only people he followed were his mom, his sister, and a few people from his department at work. It’d been sad, and had made Bucky sad, so he’d purged it from his life.

Without television, movies, social media, and a severe aversion to museums because that’s where he’d met Steve for the first time, Bucky had been bored. Bored enough to start writing a book about Kaiser Wilhelm II’s sexual proclivities. Bored enough to join a fucking gym. Bored enough to actually go to that gym. Bored enough to try to start training Eustace to roll over for treats, which wasn’t working at all, but Bucky was still trying. Bored enough to try to brave a museum again. Today.

It was March 10th: Bucky’s birthday. It was as good a time as any to try to go to a museum again. Bucky had loved the museum for years before Steve had ruined it for him. And, since he was guest-teaching a seminar on the historiography of museum curation since his colleague was out on maternity leave, as good an opportunity as any to take his class on a glorified field trip to try to convince himself that museums were still safe and fun for him. Because Bucky did love museums. And it was his birthday, so he deserved to have fun. And, beyond all that, he really did want to go to one again.

But the idea of taking the subway and rubbing copious amounts of hand sanitizer on his hands to cope with the grime of the subway and walking through the museum and seeing the place he’d met Steve for the very first time sounded fucking horrifying. But, Bucky reminded himself with the same careful, measured tone his therapists had always used with him, it was his birthday, and he was supposed to enjoy it, and he enjoyed museums, even if they were tainted with memories of Steve.

Bucky ran his hand under the water. It was still cold, since Bucky’s landlord didn’t give a shit about replacing the building’s pre-war water heater, but Bucky didn’t care enough to wait any longer. He just wanted to shower and get today over with, get all the expectations of having fun just because it was his birthday over with.

He used to love his birthday; he would watch Star Wars and go out to dinner with his family and buy himself cupcakes from the bakery down the street. But today just felt like another day to trudge through before going to sleep and waking up and trudging through the next day. Maybe even worse, because today was full of pressure for Bucky to have a good time and have fun and feel happy, and Bucky knew that wouldn’t be the case. Because no day had been good in months.

Bucky hated that being treated like trash by Steve had hurt him so bad. It shouldn’t have. They weren’t even boyfriends or anything. Bucky knew that he was worth ten of Steve, twenty of Steve, really, since Bucky was good to people, at least. Well, he tried to be, which was still more than Steve had ever done. Steve was just an asshole, sure, but he was just a temporary nuisance in Bucky’s life that Bucky had gotten rid of. It was like Steve was bedbugs; it sucked to deal with him, and Bucky had only dealt with it after the infestation was already bad, but now it was over and Bucky could move forward. At least, he should be able to move forward. But the fact that Steve had done . . . that to Bucky still hurt like hell, like a wound that had technically scabbed over, but was still tender and soft.

It didn’t even make sense that Steve had been able to hurt Bucky that much, since they’d only been “seeing each other,” less than seeing each other, really, if there was a word for that, for fewer than six months. Bucky figured that it was probably just the fact that he’d projected the image of Steve Rogers he’d given himself by being such a big fan onto the real Steve, and it had blinded Bucky to how shitty Steve was. It made Bucky cringe to think of it now. He had needed to grow up and get over his boyhood obsession. And, Bucky supposed as he lathered shampoo into his hair and shivered under the cold water, he had grown up. He’d stopped being such a lovesick puppy, had stopped watching Star Wars and Ghostbusters every single night, had stopped stalking people’s IMDB pages like some ninth-grader who showered every three weeks at the behest of their parents.

Sure, there was a hole in his life where all that had been, but Bucky knew it’d fill in eventually. It just needed time. He just needed time.

Bucky washed the shampoo out and started on washing his body, giving his shoulder a perfunctory glance to make sure nothing was infected or anything. It seemed fine, and it wasn’t hurting any more than normal, so Bucky moved on and turned off the shower. He was shivering, but wasn’t even really conscious of it other than to absently watch his hands shake while he brushed his hair.

He pulled on this favorite outfit, since it was his birthday and he might as well try to look pretty; a soft blue sweater that his mom said matched his eyes, a pair of khakis that he’d worn so much that they were almost as soft as the sweater, and a pair of brown boots that were nice enough to be considered “work shoes,” but were high enough to protect Bucky’s ankles from the gray sludge that counted as snow in New York. He put on his glasses, too, and sighed, because that just meant he could see the slightly lighter paint that outlined the spot where his TV had once hung more clearly. He felt almost wistful for how young and naive he had used to be when he’d had the TV.

But he had to move on, since he and his students had tickets to a traveling exhibit in less than half an hour, so he fed Eustace and slipped him a few extra treats, since Eustace couldn’t eat the cupcakes that Bucky was going to bring home later for his own birthday, before checking his phone. He had half a dozen texts wishing him happy birthday. Most were from relatives or colleagues, but one was from Pepper. He hadn’t talked to her since Thanksgiving, when he’d called her while sobbing and begging her to let himself out of his job, let him just stay in New York and not come back to LA after the holiday.

She’d been overly kind about it, and had seemed truly angry at Steve for fucking Bucky over like this. She’d let Bucky off the hook, even insisting he get paid despite leaving halfway through what was supposed to be his job, promising that he’d expedited enough and any other inaccuracies that Bucky hadn’t caught were acceptable, since it was Hollywood and all, and wasn’t a documentary or anything. It was too nice of her, and Bucky knew it. He had been a cowardly child for running out of there with his tail tucked between his legs like that. Any rational person would have stuck it out and just ignored Steve. Any person even a shade less than Pepper would have forced Bucky to do so. But the idea of facing Steve ever again still made Bucky nauseous, and he’d told Pepper that much at the time. He would’ve gotten a stress-induced ulcer if he’d come back.

Still, his own unprofessionalism made Bucky’s fucking teeth ache. Even now, with Pepper texting him, “Happy Birthday! Hope you’re doing well!” Bucky felt an embarrassed flush crawl up the back of his neck, and it worsened when he realized he was grabbing his keys and a granola bar and was heading to the museum where he had first met Steve. Why could Bucky never get a grip when it came to Steve?! It had been four fucking months. Bucky needed to get a handle on himself.

He locked the door behind him and shoved earbuds into his ears, playing some soft rock station that Bucky used to fall asleep because it was so boring. But, despite being boring, it drowned out the voices in between Bucky’s ears that screamed at him to stop feeling anxious about going to the fucking museum, to tell him that he didn’t need to constantly sanitize his hands on the subway, begging him to realize that it was his fucking birthday and he ought to enjoy it. His therapists had told him that those voices were just the anxious part of his brain, but lately they’d been drowning out everything else to the point that Bucky figured they were his whole brain, that Bucky was just like that.

By the time Bucky had found a seat on the subway and sanitized his hands for the third time since leaving his apartment, barely two songs had played, and Bucky was on the verge of crying. Everyone was loud and dirty and sick, and Bucky didn’t want to be anywhere close to them. And soon he’d have to confront a direct memory of spending time with Steve, which made him feel so sick that he gave up on his granola bar and threw it away instead. He hadn’t eaten a full breakfast since November, so it didn’t seem like such a big deal, but Bucky couldn’t help but be angry at himself for not just being able to fucking get over himself and live a normal fucking life like a normal fucking person, a person who was capable of moving on from a fucking break-up and eating fucking breakfast.

By the time Bucky was off the subway and approaching the doors to the museum, he had calmed down a little, through breathing and snapping the rubber band on his wrist. The sight of the museum still made him break out in a cold sweat, though, and he had to ball his hands into fists to keep himself from either running a hundred blocks in the opposite direction or bursting into tears on the steps of the museum.

But he needed to be Professor Barnes now, because he had students who were counting on him to be professional and helpful and intelligent, so he put on a brave face and walked into the atrium.

A few students were early, milling about the atrium by the check-in desk, laughing and talking so nonchalantly that it lit a buzz of jealousy in the pit of Bucky’s stomach.

“Hey, guys,” Bucky said as he approached them, his voice steady, but a little rougher than he’d like. Good enough, though. Passable as a normal, calm professor who’d maybe had a few too many the night before.

The students acknowledged him with a few waves before returning to their conversations. Bucky let them, focusing instead on steadying his breathing and readying himself emotionally to lead a group of twenty-year-olds through an exhibit that they were probably going to mock. Which was going fine, until one of them, one of the smart ones, Peter Parker, gasped and went white.

“Everything okay?” Bucky asked, immediately in full Professor mode, pushing his glasses up his nose like that would help him ascertain why Peter was freaking out.

Peter was staring at the entrance to the museum, literally bouncing on the balls of his feet. His voice was practically an octave higher when he squealed, “Holy fuck, Professor Barnes. That’s Steve Rogers!”

And, sure enough, Steve was at the entrance to the museum, holding the door for a little old lady, because of course he was.

It couldn’t have been. It couldn’t have. The universe wouldn’t do that to Bucky, not on his fucking birthday. It wasn’t fair. It was probably just some other incredibly handsome man who was known to frequent this museum. But then the sunlight caught the man’s hair, and Bucky knew.

Steve Rogers was here. Less than a hundred feet from Bucky.

Bucky’s blood rushed in his ears and his hands clenched into fists. His heart rocketed up to what felt like 10,000 beats per minute. 10,000 beats per second. His breaths were coming too quick, fast enough to make the beginnings of a headache pulse behind Bucky’s eyes. He was cold all over, but sweating profusely, and adrenaline was coursing through his muscles, making him want to run away, to home. Further, probably, across the Hudson to New Jersey, or even more, all the way to fucking Japan or something. Bucky would probably like Tokyo, he reasoned. It would probably be loud enough to shut his own head up.

Steve was walking toward Bucky, further into the atrium, and that made Bucky’s attention snap back to reality. Steve’d changed since Bucky had last seen him. For one, he was wearing a shirt, a soft-looking black cable-knit sweater, and, for two, he wasn’t crying. He was smiling, the skin around his eyes crinkling the way Bucky used to adore. Steve’s hair was longer and actually combed for once, and he’d grown a beard, just a few shades darker than his hair. Unlike Bucky’s, Steve’s beard was well-groomed and smooth. Overall, Steve looked happy, and healthy, and it made Bucky’s sides ache.

Bucky didn’t know what he’d rather Steve look like; maybe depressed and schlubby and like he hadn’t slept since November. But, when Bucky imagined Steve like that instead, it made Bucky’s chest hurt worse than just seeing Steve looking fine did. It didn’t make sense; Bucky should have wanted Steve to be languishing in some dumpster somewhere, crying and begging for Bucky to forgive him. But Bucky didn’t want that, not really. He still wanted Steve a billion feet away from him, sure, but Bucky didn’t want Steve hurting.

The cognitive dissonance made Bucky want to scream, want to dropkick Peter’s good fucking eyesight across the goddamn atrium, since if Peter hadn’t spotted Steve, Bucky could have lived on in continued blissful ignorance. But Bucky couldn’t give into that urge, because suddenly Peter was tugging on Bucky’s sleeve again, and Bucky couldn’t be Hurt Bucky, because he had to be Professor Barnes again.

“Can we go get a picture with him before the exhibit opens? I’m a huge fan, and we’ll have cool pictures for the website, to, like, promote history at Columbia and whatever.” Peter’s voice was so earnest that it hurt. Bucky must have sounded like that the whole time he’d been with Steve. It was probably just a celebrity thing, the ability to cause that sort of reaction, but Bucky couldn’t help but think of it as a Steve thing, since Steve seemed like he was so good and nice and perfect. It made Bucky’s chest ache again, so Bucky just nodded instead of trying to fight through the ache and respond.

He watched as Peter literally ran over to Steve, a gaggle of other students following and chuckling nervously to each other. Peter got Steve’s attention, and held his phone up, obviously asking for a photo. It made the ghost of a smile dance on Bucky’s lips, remembering the day Steve had taken him to that bougie fucking coffee shop and they’d gotten swamped by fans.

But that smile was quickly squashed, because Peter was yelling, “Professor Barnes! Come take the picture!” and Steve was following Peter’s gaze.

Steve’s easy smile faded into a sweet, soft frown that Bucky hated himself for being attracted to. Steve’s eyebrows knitted together, and tension knotted itself into his shoulders. Bucky felt frozen in place by Steve’s eye contact. He had to bite his lip to keep himself from crying, because everything felt like it was coming back, being barfed up by someone with an incredibly strong gag reflex all over Bucky’s sweater and shoes, the emotional vomit filling up the whole atrium, the whole fucking city with its stench. Memories kept flickering through Bucky’s mind like a demented flip book. The way they’d had sex. The way Bucky had loved Steve. The way Steve had thrown Bucky away like a particularly filthy piece of trash.

“Professor Barnes!” Peter was yelling.

Bucky shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and walked over. Steve had already seen him, so the damage was already done. Besides, Professor Barnes couldn’t ruin his students’ day by refusing to take a picture of them with their idol. His feet felt like they were made out of lead, of neutron stars, of something so heavy that it would take a superhero to move them at all, let alone walk with them. But Bucky had to be Professor Barnes right now, and that meant being professional, which meant walking over and taking a picture of his students with the man that had shattered Bucky’s heart and then jumped on the pieces in some weird, overly choreographed ballet routine specifically formulated to make Bucky hurt.

“Bucky,” Steve said when Bucky got within non-yelling earshot. Steve’s voice was rough and low, and Bucky couldn’t help but compare it to how it sounded when Steve had just finished sucking Bucky off. Or to how it’d sounded when he’d told Bucky that Bucky was nothing to him.

“Okay,” Bucky said, pointedly ignoring Steve and talking way too loud for the echoey atrium, “whose phone are we using?”

“Mine works,” Peter said, shoving his phone into Bucky’s hands.

Bucky looked down at it like he was pretending to figure out how the camera worked when, really, he just didn’t want to look at Steve ever again.

“Bucky,” Steve said, a little louder this time.

Bucky shook his head like that would clear it of Steve’s voice, of all his memories of Steve. “Smile,” Bucky said, again too loudly, as he raised the phone and started taking pictures. He took two or three, and did his best not to notice how Steve wasn’t really smiling, was looking at Bucky instead with something weird and foreign and unreadable in his eyes.

“Here,” Bucky said, passing Peter’s phone back to him. The students were already scattering, and it provided a welcome reason for Bucky to look at them instead of Steve.

“Meet back at nine,” Bucky said, his overly large volume now justified. The students didn’t react, but Bucky was freaking out too much to do anything else to make sure that they understood.

“Bucky, hey,” Steve said, stepping forward and putting a gentle hand on Bucky’s elbow.

Bucky jumped back like he’d been shocked, leaping nearly two feet back, half from being startled and half from genuine anguish. Steve couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want Bucky, didn’t want Bucky’s body, so why would he touch it? Probably trying to manipulate Bucky again or something. Steve was almost definitely just horny and Bucky was there, so Steve thought that Bucky could be a worthy outlet for his sexual frustrations. 

That knowledge didn’t keep Bucky’s heart from jackhammering against his sternum even faster, though. The sound of it was making Bucky nauseous. Couldn’t Steve understand that Bucky needed him gone? Immediately and irrevocably gone. Bucky felt sick, and his head was spinning, and he yanked out his hand sanitizer and rubbed a glob in, just for something to do to so Steve wouldn’t look at him or touch him anymore.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve mumbled. He sounded sad, his voice every bit as gentle as Bucky remembered it being, but Bucky couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Wait, Professor Barnes, you know him?!” Peter was yelling, too, and it was adding to Bucky’s headache and nausea.

Bucky looked up sharply. He’d thought Peter had scattered with everyone else, but Peter was standing right there, in between Steve and Bucky like some sort of barrier. He was a barrier, Bucky figured, since Bucky wouldn’t scream at Steve in front of one of his students, no matter how badly he wanted to.

“No,” Bucky said quickly. “Well, um, not anymore,” he added to make sure that Steve wouldn’t contradict Bucky and make him look bad.

“The fuck does that mean?” Peter said. He was clearly enjoying this; his eyes were wide and he had a huge grin splitting his face like he was watching some awesome monster truck fight or something.

“Language, Parker,” Bucky snapped without thinking.

Steve huffed a laugh at Bucky’s comment, and it bothered Bucky enough to muster up the energy to glare pointedly at Steve. Steve didn’t even have to grace to look apologetically at Bucky. Instead, he was just staring at his own shoes.

“Sorry, sir,” Peter said, adjusting the straps on his backpack uncomfortably.

“Bucky, how have you been?” Steve asked. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he looked painfully uneasy. All of his sweet, simple smiles from before were gone, which Bucky was grateful for. They, besides seeing Steve at all, were what was hurting Bucky the worst, right in the hollow of his throat where Steve had used to like kissing him.

Bucky’s whole body was hurting, really, an overwhelmed ache that was going to make Bucky throw up if it lasted any longer. His eyes were stinging, and there was a lump in his painfully dry throat, just above the pain that Steve’s smiles were causing. His shoulder was aching too, like it remembered how gently Steve had touched it and was punishing Bucky for letting Steve do that. Why was Steve talking to him like they were old friends who had lost touch? They weren’t. Steve had wrecked Bucky’s heart. The reason they’d lost touch is because Bucky had blocked Steve and deleted every single other way Steve might have tried contacting him.

And, even before Bucky had done that, only a few weeks ago, Steve had never once tried to reach out. Steve had no right to treat Bucky like they were cordial, because they weren’t, and neither of them had ever made any attempt to be since Steve had torn Bucky apart and spat on the shreds Steve’s actions had left. Every single second Steve stood there, hands in his pockets and staring at the marble floor shyly made Bucky’s insides ache and his stomach roll.

Bucky just looked Steve over once. He had nothing to say to Steve, not really. At least, nothing that wasn’t “please stop hurting me,” so Bucky moved on. “Peter,” Bucky said aloud, “we should head up to the exhibit. We’re going to miss our ticket time.”

That should have been the end of it. Bucky should have been able to just go, find the escalator, and head up to the exhibit. But he remained rooted to the spot, staring at Steve while he should have been looking at Peter, at his students. While he should have been moving on.

“Bucky, wait, please.” Steve was looking up at Bucky. Steve shouldn’t have been able to do that without it hurting. Steve shouldn’t have looked so good, so healthy. His skin should have been crawling with ugliness and hurt like Bucky’s was. He should have been trying desperately to leave, like Bucky was. Steve looked sad and embarrassed, but he should have looked mortified, should have been sobbing an apology or turning tail and running home to whatever fucking Park Avenue penthouse he lived in. But he looked good, handsome and pretty, like he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. It pissed Bucky off almost as much as it hurt, because Steve clearly didn’t need Bucky; Steve was doing fine. Bucky was just that expendable to him.

Really, Steve shouldn’t have been asking Bucky to wait, either. Because what more did Bucky have to give to Steve? Steve had taken everything Bucky had. But, even more than that, Bucky shouldn’t have wanted to stay.

“We need to round everyone up before we head up. We really need to go, Peter, or we’ll be late,” Bucky said because he knew it was true, but he still wasn’t looking at Peter, and was instead staring at the way the sun filtering through the high windows of the atrium made Steve’s eyes look a million different shades of blue. A kaleidoscope of moments where Bucky had been sure that he’d loved Steve. A visual cacophony of Bucky’s own personal shame.

“Bucky, please, will you talk to me? Just for a few minutes?” Steve was staying frozen to his own spot, too. Bucky could see his hands straining in his pockets; he wanted to touch Bucky again, but he was keeping himself there, keeping himself still.

“I can round everyone up,” Peter said annoyingly quickly, breaking the silence but not making any progress toward cutting the tension. “That’ll take fifteen minutes, anyway, and then we’ll head up. It’s okay if we’re a little bit late.”

Bucky wanted to tell Peter that it was fine, that he could just leave Steve, but then Peter was gone and it was just Bucky, with barely two feet of space between him and Steve, and Bucky couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. It was a deer-in-the-headlights, gun-to-the-head moment. Bucky wasn’t actively having a panic attack, but he simultaneously was sure that he’d never been that scared in his whole life.

“Will you come sit with me, Bucky?” Steve asked softly, like he thought if he did anything more than whisper Bucky would startle and run away. Which, really, wasn’t far from the truth.

Bucky didn’t want to sit with Steve. He didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be at home, cuddled up with Eustace and the wolf plushie he’d bought himself at the airport in LA to cry into, the one that he’d named Bartholomew. He wanted his fucking teddy bear from preschool, for chrissake. He wanted safety and comfort, and not the poor facsimile of that which Steve had become for Bucky.

Really, he wanted to hate the idea of sitting with Steve. But he didn’t. 

The one thing Bucky didn’t want to do was talk, so he just shook his head.

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve said softly. “Please? We can go to the cafe or something. I’ll get you a tea. Chamomile, with just a little bit of honey?” Steve asked, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. Bucky wanted to punch it off Steve’s face. He probably was strong enough to, now. But he couldn’t do that. Because Steve had remembered his tea order, and it was making something gross and visceral spin out of the pit of his stomach and onto the crown of his head.

Bucky felt like his insides were a fucking maraca filled with beans of sadness and longing and regret and, maybe, just a few were still love, and they were all being shaken around tunelessly, jostling his organs and his feelings and making Bucky’s head spin. Bucky wanted to run away. He wanted to kiss Steve. He wanted to go back in time and slap some fucking sense into Steve before they’d kissed for the first time. Before Bucky truly wanted Steve.

But before Bucky could do anything, Steve was walking toward the little cafe, past the point where Bucky had assaulted Steve with coffee, into the seating area. Bucky, despite knowing every step was mistake, couldn’t help but follow. As much as it hurt, as much as Bucky hated Steve, it was Steve, and Bucky couldn’t help himself around Steve at the best of times. Steve was walking slow, probably to make sure Bucky was following, eventually guiding Bucky into a little booth in the corner of the cafe. There was a hoodie there, leaned up against the wall, and Bucky recognized it as one of Steve’s. Steve’d been waiting there.

That made Bucky more nervous, especially when Steve asked him to wait there and left to go buy Bucky a tea. Why would Steve have a hoodie here, unless he’d been waiting for something? And why was he buying Bucky a tea? What more did Steve fucking want from him?!

Bucky should have refused any gifts from Steve, especially tea, since tea was special for him and Steve, but he felt mute. He still hadn’t spoken a word to Steve. What was he supposed to say, especially while he was supposed to be leading a fucking class and shouldn’t have been with Steve in the first place? More importantly, why had Steve pulled him away from his class?

Bucky should have just said, “Fuck you, asshole,” and left, but some disgusting, shameful part of Bucky still wanted Steve, and wanted Steve to want him.

Bucky’s anxieties were swirling in his head sickeningly rapidly, and it made Bucky want to cry. What did Steve fucking want? What hadn’t Steve already taken from Bucky? Bucky should have just fucking bolted, ran to his class, and taken them to breakfast instead of bothering with trying to deal with Steve. Should’ve turned tail and gotten the fuck out of the museum.

But before Bucky could, Steve came back, and put a steaming paper travel mug in front of Bucky. It said Bucky in blue Sharpie on the side, and Bucky could tell it was Steve’s handwriting. It made Bucky want to talk even less. What was Steve doing?

“Hi,” Steve said, sitting down across from Bucky. He was hunched over a little, like he was trying to make himself seem small and unthreatening, which was a laughable attempt for someone as broad and muscled as Steve.

Bucky didn’t say anything; there was a golf ball made of renewed hurt and fresh panic weighing down and blocking his vocal cords.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk to me. You don’t need to, Buck. Lord knows I don’t deserve for you to talk to me, anyway. Is it okay if I talk, though?”

Bucky shrugged and sipped his tea. It tasted like the tea Steve used to make for Bucky, back when Bucky was all stupid and starry-eyed for him, and that made Bucky feel even more full of emotions that he couldn’t quite place. All he knew was that they were everywhere and they were hurting like fucking hell, jagged and sharp and angry and stabbing him everywhere. He hoped he wasn’t bleeding internally.

“I hurt you, Buck, and you didn’t deserve it at all, and I’m sorry. I want to make this better. I want to start over. Please.” Steve didn’t have his own drink, but his hands were rubbing together, and it looked like he wanted something to hold. A thought like a lightning flash zoomed through Bucky’s mind; Steve might want to hold Bucky’s hands, but Bucky shoved it out just as quickly. If that were the case, Steve wouldn’t have been fucking other people while he was ostensibly dating Bucky.

“I wanna be honest with you, Buck. All the time. For as long as you let me be near you. Can I start now?”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just took another sip of his tea. He had nothing to say to that. Steve was probably lying right there. It was such a performance, and it made Bucky’s stomach roll even faster. Steve was manipulating Bucky again, for the umpteenth time. Even if some base, desperate part of Bucky’s mind still wanted Steve, Bucky knew that Steve was just manipulating and hurt, setting Bucky up for even more hurt and even more disappointment and even more regrets than Bucky already had.

“I wanna talk to you about, um, why I did what I did. I owe you that much,” Steve said slowly. Bucky still didn’t respond.

“Okay, Buck. So, um, my dad died, in the military, before I was born, and my mom while I was in high school. I had no relatives and all my parent’s savings went to my mom’s cancer treatments, so after she died I was screwed. I got a fast food job, but the hours and the pay was shit and I couldn’t make ends meet, so I did escort work once or twice when I got out of school, which devolved into me sleeping around so I would have a place to crash when I couldn’t afford a motel room. It was just . . . a habit, I guess.” Steve’s cheeks were bright; he was embarrassed. Bucky didn’t feel bad for him. Steve deserved to feel like that.

Bucky was more feeling more confusion than schadenfreude, though. Why was Steve telling him all this? Bucky guessed it was just an attempt to garner sympathy, so Bucky would feel bad for Steve and try to fix it by sleeping with him. It seemed ludicrous and stupid, but Bucky wouldn’t put anything past Steve anymore. Not since Steve had shattered Bucky’s heart.

“Okay,” Steve continued, his muscles stiff like it was hurting to make eye contact with Bucky. “Um, I started seeing a therapist after you left, and she said sleeping around might be a manifestation of anxiety, like I view it as a safety blanket, a way of protecting myself since I had all that shitty stuff happen to me.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed. Even though this was just a ploy to sleep with Bucky again, this was still fucking rich. This was soap opera shit. Couldn’t Steve come up with a better way to manipulate Bucky?

Bucky didn’t even understand why Steve wanted to sleep with him again in the first place. It wasn’t like he was some sex god, and it definitely wasn’t like Steve couldn’t find half a billion people hotter than Bucky willing to sleep with him. Bucky didn’t fucking understand Steve’s play here, and that stung all over again; Bucky would rather know how Steve was fucking with him than be blindsided again.

“It’s, like, because if my house got taken away, at least I’d have some place to sleep.” Steve was still talking, but he paused to huff a laugh at his non-joke, non-pun, and ran a hand through his hair, which made it stick up. Bucky wanted to think it was cute, but he stopped himself before he could finish the thought.

“I have a lot of health problems, things that I never talk to the press about, too. I have asthma, and anemia, and a bad back, and, um, some other, worse things. Sleeping around made me feel wanted, which made me feel like I wasn’t such a genetic fuck-up. At least, that’s what my therapist tells me.” Steve was blushing and rubbing the back of his neck. He was anxious and uncomfortable. Bucky still couldn’t make himself feel bad. He just wanted to figure out Steve’s game, then go home and cry into his pillow about it.

The fact that it was happening now, on Bucky’s birthday, made it even more serendipitous and painful; of course something like this, something like Steve deciding to manipulate Bucky again, would happen on a day that was supposed to be fun and good for Bucky.

“For a long time it was just my way of being. But then I met you. Here, actually, right over there.”

That made Bucky stop sipping his tea in silence, and he almost dropped it on himself in surprise.

“You remembered that?” Bucky asked, utterly shocked. It didn’t even register that those were the first words he’d said to Steve in nearly four months. This went against everything Bucky had ever thought about Steve, about the image he’d built up in his mind around Steve. Both images, in fact, the overwhelmingly positive one and the painfully negative one. It just didn’t add up; Steve hadn’t recognized Bucky that first night in LA. Bucky had been sure of it, one hundred percent sure. But, more than shocking Bucky, it somehow fit; this was just another thing Steve had fucking lied about.

“Of course I did, Buck. I remember everything about you. You clearly recognized me from Instagram or something, and you were freaking out, but you were so sweet, offering to buy me a new shirt and everything. You’re always so sweet, Bucky.” Steve sounded wistful, like he was fifty years older than he really was.

Bucky’s cheeks were heating up, mostly in embarrassment, but with an undercurrent of rage. On one hand, it was sweet and kind of adorable that Steve had though of Bucky like that. But, on the other, more rational, hand, Bucky’d been sure Steve had forgotten him, had moved on and had just seen Bucky as a mark. This didn’t add up to Bucky’s perception of Steve, and was far closer to the one he’d had when Bucky had thought him and Steve were meant to be. Steve was only telling Bucky this when he clearly wanted something from Bucky. He was just trying to manipulate Bucky again.

“And then, when I saw you again in LA, barely a week later, it was crazy. Serendipity.” Steve blew out a slow breath through his nose.

“Why are you telling me this now, Steve?” Bucky asked sharply, choosing to channel the rage over the embarrassment. “I already know I was just another fuck for you.”

Steve inhaled sharply, like Bucky had just struck him across his gorgeous cheek. “You were always more than just another fuck, Bucky. Always.”

“No, Steve, I wasn’t. If that were true, you would have been honest with me. You would have stopped sleeping with other people.” Bucky was letting his hurt and rage speak over his still bottled-up want for Steve, but Bucky didn’t care. It wasn’t like Steve didn’t deserve it. Besides, it felt good, cathartic, to spit Bucky’s pain all over Steve. He deserved it, and Bucky wasn’t sure he could quell the hurt even if he wanted to.

“I know, Buck,” Steve said, his voice quiet and strained. He was holding back tears. “I fucked up, but I miss you.”

“You miss having a devoted puppy dog,” Bucky corrected, venom in his tone.

“No, Bucky, I miss you. I want you so bad, not only because you’re hot, but because you’re funny and nerdy and sweet and so, so smart. But I didn’t stop, because I didn’t think. I didn’t think about exactly why I liked you so much, or why you were so special to me. And then you said you loved me, and I knew I’d taken it too far. Because, even if I didn’t know it then, I love you, too, and I would do anything for you, and I couldn’t lie to you anymore.”

That shut the hurt up for the moment. Bucky was dumbfounded. Utterly, completely dumbfounded. He felt sick to his stomach, yet electrified at the same time. Steve loved him?! What the fuck?!

He felt like some expensive chandelier that had fallen and shattered onto the floor; jangled and disjointed and useless and shattered. He felt shattered. He’d felt shattered for four months, but Steve saying that he loved Bucky was making it worse, making it more pointed. It was like the pain had been mumbling in Bucky’s body for months, and now it was being enunciated clearly, bringing the pain out and to the forefront. Now the hurt was present, surface-level and direct.

Bucky’s mouth had dropped open at some point, and Bucky snapped it closed. He needed to keep his head on. Even if it hurt, even if Bucky felt vulnerable and worried and shattered, he needed to remember that Steve was probably just manipulating him again.

If Steve’d really loved Bucky, Bucky would have known about it months ago. Instead, Steve had seen Bucky randomly at this fucking museum and decided to take advantage of that fact by telling Bucky that Steve loved him. It was, admittedly, genius, but Bucky couldn’t let himself fall for it. Not again.

“You couldn’t have realized this nine months ago?” Bucky said sullenly after a long, pregnant pause. It was all he could think to say without calling Steve a lying fuckface directly. Which Bucky probably should have done, since that was what Steve was. But Steve wasn’t worth Bucky yelling at him, especially not in public, especially not when he was on his university’s dime and ostensibly teaching about historiography. So, instead, Bucky just shut up and counted down the seconds until he could leave and the hurt could, hopefully, end.

It felt like Bucky was a pendulum, rocketing between missing Steve and hurting over him to hating Steve with every fiber of Bucky’s being. Bucky needed to stay on the hate side, the safe side. The missing side was just going to lead to Bucky getting hurt yet again.

“I know. Believe me, I know. But, Bucky, we can just start over and ignore it. Please, can we start over? Just try?” Steve asked, reaching across the table.

Bucky looked down at Steve’s hand, then back up at him. His face was alight in a blush, and he was sweating, yet he still somehow looked gorgeous. He was nervous. Bucky was making him nervous. That, or, more likely, Steve was just acting, just manipulating, again.

Bucky sighed and shook his head. “That’s not how this works, Steve,” Bucky said softly. “It’s done. We can’t try anymore. I’m never gonna be able to trust you again.” And it really did feel true; even if Bucky did decide to give Steve the time of day, everything Steve ever said would now be overanalyzed and worried over by Bucky until it was meaningless. But Bucky shouldn’t have given Steve the time of day at all; the “I love you” thing must have been yet another ploy to get back in Bucky’s pants; it had to have been. One that had struck remarkably close to home, yes, but still just another ploy. Bucky needed to keep his head on.

But, a stupid, lovesick voice nagged in the back of Bucky’s head, whispering insistently that if that were the case, if Steve was just manipulating Bucky, why would Steve’s sweatshirt already be here, near where they’d met for the first time? Why would he be waiting here, especially if Bucky hadn’t been here since June? If he was here for the museum, he’d be in the exhibits. It wasn’t like the museum cafe had particularly good coffee or ambience or anything.

Steve swallowed and withdrew his hand slowly, like it burned to move it away. “Please, Bucky. I haven’t slept with anyone since you, and I don’t wanna sleep with anyone else ever again. You’re . . . you’re it for me, Buck. Please just try.” Steve surreptitiously lifted a hand to his cheek and wiped at his eyes, hiding a tear before it could fall. The action looked almost angry.

Bucky should have rolled his eyes and gotten up and left, but the crying was getting to Bucky. Some stupid, idiotic part of Bucky was convinced that the crying was real, that Steve was being honest. Bucky knew it was fake, but it still kept him glued to the booth. “Steve, even if that were true, how would I know that would continue to be the case?”

“We can figure out a system! Y-you can get a tracker on my phone, and-and I’ll give you an itinerary of every day so you’ll know I am where I’m supposed to be, and I’ll never talk to anyone except you in private. Please, Buck, we can make this work. Please try, Buck. I love you.” Steve’s tears were coming faster, and he was wiping them on his sweater sleeves, the friction irritating the skin around his eyes and flushing it an angry pink.

Bucky shook his head. Steve must have been lying to him. But if he was, why make promises that Bucky could tell if Steve was breaking? Why do that to himself? And why do it to be with Bucky of all people? “Steve, that’s not a healthy relationship. That’s not starting over.”

“Please, Buck. I’ve been trying for you. I come here every day, ever since shooting finished, since I know you love museums and everything. I-I just wanted to see you and apologize to you. I need you, Buck. Please.”

Bucky felt a little dizzy; Steve had been coming here every day just because he had seen Bucky here once. He had been trying for Bucky. But a bitter thought bit back into Bucky’s mind; this was almost definitely all be a lie, too, just to manipulate Bucky. Steve wanted from something, and, even if Bucky didn’t know what it was, Bucky had nothing to give Steve. Bucky had nothing left.

And, even if, by some perverted miracle, Steve was telling the truth, this was all too much, too fast, anyway. Steve had hurt Bucky too much, even if he was telling the truth. Bucky needed to get out of there.

“Okay, Steve. I’ve got to go. My class is waiting.”

Bucky stood to leave, and started walking toward the exit, rubbing at his face to make sure it didn’t look like he’d been crying. The words had burned like a poker being shoved down his throat, but Bucky knew it was the right choice. It had to be; Bucky had no other options that didn’t involve him getting hurt again.

“Wait, Bucky!”

Despite himself, Bucky stopped. He didn’t even know why he did it. It was an idiotic thing to do. He shouldn’t have done it; he should have been running to the exit, but instead he was turning and letting Steve catch up to him.

Steve was looking down at something clutched in his hand, avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

“If I don’t ever see you again, please give this to Eustace. You left it at your apartment. I, um, came to feed him the night after, um . . . the night after. You were gone, but this was in the cabinet by the cat food. Figured he’d need it.”

Steve pressed a purple cord into Bucky’s hand. Eustace’s collar, the one Bucky couldn’t find while he was packing.

“Okay, Buck. Bye.” Steve’s voice was strained and trembling, but he was leaving.

Bucky stared, dumbfounded, at Eustace’s collar. Steve must have been coming here every day in the hopes of seeing Bucky; Steve wouldn’t have been carrying Eustace’s collar if seeing Bucky had been a fluke. Not even Steve was that elaborate, that cruel.

If the embarrassing, depressing reality of Steve coming here every single day for nearly four months was the truth, it probably meant everything else was true, too. After all, Steve had no reason to lie to Bucky anymore, especially if Steve was letting Bucky go relatively easily like this, if he wasn’t saying something that he knew would make Bucky stay. He obviously knew how to manipulate Bucky, but he hadn’t. He’d let Bucky go, because he loved Bucky.

It’d been true. It had to have been. Bucky had the proof sitting in his palm, still warm from Steve’s pocket. Steve had been trying, even if Bucky hadn’t been there for Steve to try for. Steve had wanted to be better for Bucky.

“Wait, Steve,” Bucky called, his voice wobblier than he meant it to be. Steve turned. He had stopped trying to hide his tears, and they ran down his face unbidden, and Bucky pressed down the urge to run over there and kiss them off Steve’s cheeks. He had something to say first. 

“I can try, Steve. I can try for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an epilogue coming next week, and maybe a sequel in the coming months. It will be shorter, probably about ten chapters, and set in between this chapter and the epilogue. Thanks for reading! It means so much to me!


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry about the wait! I was on vacation and didn't have five minutes to myself. Enjoy the chapter and thank you all so so so so much for reading this over the past few months. It means so much to me that I get to write for all of you guys and I really appreciate it.

Bucky tugged his phone out of his hoodie pocket and half-smiled at the text on its home screen: “Where are you, baby? I’m dying up here.” It was followed by a litany of eggplant and water spurt emojis, which made Bucky simultaneously blush and feel the need to adjust himself in his jeans. Steve was always so gross and hammy with these things, and Bucky always mocked him for it, but Bucky still couldn’t keep himself from waiting with bated breath to get off the subway and get up to Steve’s apartment.

He’d had one hell of a day; his TA had forgotten the exam results at her house, there had been a fire drill in the middle of his grading, so he’d only been able to get through a paper and half, and Eustace had thrown up on Steve’s favorite pair of Bucky’s underwear, the gray boxers with the pink paw prints on them, so Bucky knew he’d be disappointing Steve. But, even though it wasn’t in Steve’s favorite underwear and even though it was after a shit day, at least now Bucky’d be able to go up to Steve’s apartment and decompress for an hour or two. Of course, after that hour or two of getting dicked and maybe ordering a pizza or something, Bucky knew that he had to go back home and work more, grade until the sun fucking came up and he had to head to work again and force himself to do it all over again.

It was almost the end of the semester, so Bucky’s work was ramping up to the point of ridiculousness, and it made Bucky’s head spin with stress. He wished he could just skip ahead five weeks, slip into June weather and being able to spend every afternoon with Steve, on his bed or his kitchen table, or, like the first time, the first time it had been real, just on the floor outside Steve’s front door, easy and fun and escapist.

Because it was an escape, to take the subway halfway across Manhattan and dive into the arms of someone who was both nothing to Bucky and so much all at once. It was complicated and gross, and Bucky had to unstick his hand from the way it had clenched itself around the pole in the subway and tug at the rubber band on his wrist to remind himself that he didn’t need to think about this. This was simple. This was two consenting adults who had the hots for each other and wanted stress relief and knew the other’s feelings or lack thereof shouldn’t affect the fact that they liked fucking each other. This was two consenting adults who had tried to be more than fuck-buddies and knew it wouldn’t work. This was two consenting adults who happened to both like watching Ghostbusters and sucking the other one off, but couldn’t bear the thought of dating the other.

But even though Bucky knew it was nothing, he couldn’t help the way his heart seized when he realized he was almost to his stop, and almost to Steve. Bucky sighed in disgust at himself. He was the one who’d wanted this; Steve couldn’t be trusted, but Bucky wanted him so bad, and this was the only way to have it two ways, to both have Steve and be able to never be hurt by Steve. Bucky just needed to keep reminding himself that this was normal, that it was okay. This arrangement was only a month old, so it was okay that Bucky’s heart was still seizing, Bucky figured. Not everything had had enough time to sink through his thick, thick skull, so it was okay that his stomach was clenching with something in between anticipation and anxiety.

His phone buzzed again, shaking him back to reality. It was Steve again, a little bit more lewd this time: “Need to get my mouth on you.” Once again, Steve followed it by half a dozen stupidly provocative emojis.

Bucky knew he should just roll his eyes and block Steve’s number again and turn around and start heading home, but Bucky couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t help but smile softly at the idiotic texts. Couldn’t help but text back quickly, “Coming, sweetheart. Be there in five minutes.”

It was so dumb. He was so dumb. He was playing at intimacy with someone who was, despite their considerable acting credits, incapable of feeling anything but lust toward Bucky. But, despite how much Bucky wanted it to, no panic made its way out of his chest. No terror seized him and made him turn around and run away screaming. Not even regret made itself known. Instead, Bucky just felt a little bit horny and a little bit embarrassed. It should have been pitiful, but it wasn’t. He’d had this fight with himself every single second for a month now; he was used to it by now, so Bucky tried to shove the phone back into his pocket and just move on, just accept the fact that he was gross and weird and sad.

Before he could, the phone buzzed yet again. Bucky checked it yet again, despite every ounce of rationality in him begging him not to. It was another text from Steve, reading “Well, I’d hoped you wouldn’t be coming quite yet . . .”

Bucky rolled his eyes, hoping that the gesture didn’t seem as affectionate as it might have, and typed back a furious “Fuck you.”

Bucky’s stop couldn’t come fast enough. He needed to stop fucking thinking, and just get off this fucking train and into Steve’s huge fucking arms. Bucky was never able to think when he was there, and that would have been a mercy right then.

Bucky’s need was only made worse when Steve replied, “We can always switch if you want, but I’d hoped that I’d be fucking you, Buck. Does this help my case?” A new message appeared and Bucky scrolled down to read it, almost toppling over when he realized it was a chest-down selfie of Steve leaning against the doorway to his kitchen, his shirt rucked up to his armpits and jeans slung low around his hips. His pecs and abs and Adonis lines were all just there, displayed just for Bucky, and it made the pit of Bucky’s stomach grow taut and Bucky’s hands sweat to the point where he lost his grip on the pole he was clutching when the subway slid to a stop, causing him to crash clumsily into the leather jacket of the guy in front of him.

“S-sorry!” Bucky yelled, picking himself off of the man, ignoring the man’s confused stare, and doing everything short of shoving to just get himself off this fucking train as fast as possible.

It was like he couldn’t breathe, even though he was panting as he sprinted off the train and up the stairs and across the busy street to Steve’s apartment building. It didn’t matter that Bucky had a billion feelings wrapped up in a thick, impenetrable wad that was wound so tightly that Bucky had to snap a rubber band against his wrist to remind himself not to think about it. This was what this whole arrangement was supposed to be; Bucky was horny, Steve was horny, and they fucked each other because it was fun and felt good. Bucky needed to just remember how good and easy this felt and remind himself of it when he was panicking over the fact that he still maybe loved Steve.

Or, he still maybe loved the idea of Steve. But that just a semantic argument, and it didn’t matter, at least not at that instant, because real Steve was a fuck-buddy, and Bucky was going to get to fuck him. Bucky repeated the thought like a mantra as he shoved open the shiny glass door to Steve’s building, hoping that if he kept thinking it, it’d stick.

Bucky was so busy trying to remember it that he didn’t even bother to grace Steve’s photo with a reply; right now his priority had to be ignoring his feelings while he sprinted into Steve’s bedroom as fast as possible. Bucky was so desperate that he barely glanced at Steve’s doorman whom he usually spent at least a few minutes talking to, and instead ran to the elevator, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for it to get down to the ground floor.

Bucky couldn’t wait to just get himself into Steve’s arms and get Steve’s cock in his ass and get all the stress of this week out of him and all his stupid feelings away from him as easily as Steve shirked off Bucky’s pants. Bucky’s need for Steve was overwhelming. Well, really, Bucky’s need to forget everything except the Steve that was in front of him, the need that was leeching through his pores and making him feel almost nauseous, was overwhelming.

When the elevator finally reached the ground floor, Bucky slid in and slammed the button to Steve’s floor on the elevator with an embarrassing amount of zeal, letting himself bounce lightly on the balls of his feet with anticipation. It hadn’t even been two days since they’d last jerked each other off in the back of Steve’s private town car, but Bucky couldn’t help himself.

It wasn’t like Bucky and Steve were inseparable; they were completely separate, independent beings, who just happened to enjoy having mind-blowing, head-spinning, water-break-necessitating intercourse every few days. They weren’t attached at the hips, even though the vast majority of their time together made it seem like they might anatomically be, since Steve’s cock was in Bucky’s ass ninety percent of the time they spent together now. Bucky just liked Steve, and Steve liked Bucky. It was simple. Easy. At least, it was supposed to be, and Bucky was trying his fucking hardest to make it so.

Bucky had to keep himself from squealing when the elevator began to rise, both in excitement and in slight discomfort. He’d stretched himself out less than an hour beforehand, since Bucky wasn’t nearly patient enough to deal with Steve doing it; Steve was always slow and careful and methodical, planting little kisses around Bucky’s hairline and squeezing Bucky’s hand whenever he twisted his own hand in a way that might’ve hurt. It was always slow and boring and killed Bucky’s libido and made his stomach turn in a way that was dangerously close to feelings, so, after a blow-out argument two weeks ago where Bucky’s ears had started ringing from his own screaming, he’d taken to just doing it himself.

Which had been going fine, except for these thirty seconds that the elevator took to rocket up to Steve’s penthouse. Because now, Bucky could feel himself, all loose and open and weird, all for a man whom Bucky should have stopped wanting months ago. But he hadn’t stopped wanting, or, at the very least, hadn’t been able to keep himself from needing, so here he was, drumming his fingers on his thigh and trying to ignore the feeling of his zipper of his jeans on his dick through his underwear. Instead, he just made himself take deep breaths and let the elevator shoot him up and into Steve’s arms.

Finally, the elevator opened right when it always did. Right when feelings started to creep back in, right when Bucky started to question this whole situation, right when Bucky wanted to call the whole thing off. But, as had started to become routine, it was then too late because the doors were open and Bucky’s face was enveloped into Steve’s chest and Steve was kissing his hair and tugging at Bucky’s T-shirt.

Steve still smelled the same as he always did, pine and soap and everything good, which both made Bucky sick and made Bucky want him more. But now wasn’t the time to deal with the tangle of feelings sitting like an obese elephant in Bucky’s chest, so he shoved it aside and started to nuzzle harder into Steve’s chest, like if he could just burrow away into Steve, he’d be hidden from everything that hurt. Which didn’t make any sense, because Steve was the epicenter of the hurt in the first place. That didn’t keep Bucky from trying, though.

“Hi,” Bucky said into Steve’s chest, kissing him through the fabric.

“Hey, Buck. How’s work been, sweetheart?” Steve asked, pulling back just enough to form words, but letting his lips linger on Bucky’s scalp.

“Stressful. Need you,” Bucky mumbled honestly, tugging at Steve’s shirt with frustrated little pulls that Steve laughed at. Steve put his hands over Bucky’s like he was soothing them, which, just like Bucky’s idea that he’d be safe if he could just burrow into Steve, wasn’t real. Steve didn’t soothe Bucky anymore, only riled him up even more, like loading a bullet with rocket fuel instead of gunpowder. Bucky didn’t even know how the physics of that would work, but, regardless, it was true. Steve riled him up, in more ways than one.

“You’ve got me, Buck,” Steve whispered sweetly, squeezing Bucky’s hands.

Bucky resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Steve’s sappiness, and instead started yanking at Steve’s shirt with more purpose, pulling up instead of just on it. Steve stepped back and whipped it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him. Bucky didn’t bother to follow its path; he had what he wanted now.

Bucky dove forward and wrapped his arms bruisingly hard around Steve’s middle, and started sucking hickeys down Steve’s collarbones and over his neck, high enough that Steve would have to put conscious effort into hiding them, dark enough that Steve would be thinking about Bucky long after this was over. Steve was just petting Bucky’s hair gently, occasionally tugging a little bit at a tangle. Bucky wanted to scream at him to pull it, but the last time Bucky’d tried that Steve had blatantly refused and kicked him out, and that’d been the final straw before starting this sort of arrangement.

And Bucky really did want to avoid being kicked out again, and instead get to the part where Steve’s dick was in his ass and sending them both to the heavens, so Bucky just sighed and started pulling at his own fly. He sure as hell wasn’t going to switch his attention away from Steve’s chest to something as stupid as his own fly, so Bucky’s fingers were fumbling and it was messy and sloppy and he was, despite having stepped in the door barely two minutes ago, somehow already cock-drunk, and it was clearly showing.

“Want help?” Steve asked, voice dripping with condescension, moving his hands from Bucky’s hair to dip into Bucky’s waistband and press on the top of Bucky’s ass.

“Fuck you,” Bucky slurred against Steve’s collarbone.

Steve laughed again and started on getting Bucky’s pants off for him. “In good time, Buck.” Steve paused and squeezed Bucky’s hips before brushing his fingertips in between Bucky’s jeans and his boxers. “You stretched for me?” Steve’s voice was husky, and the question was kind of gross, and it shouldn’t have been hot, and Bucky shouldn’t have been turned by it, but it was and Bucky was.

Turned-on to the point of just making a disgusting slurping sound as Bucky finished a hickey in the hollow of Steve’s throat in lieu of actually answering. Bucky should have felt gross and embarrassed, but he didn’t. He just felt horny and impatient. He wanted to be fucked so good he was aching. He wanted Steve to stop being so goddamn gentle with him, but, as much as Bucky wanted to, he couldn’t talk to Steve about that. Every time he’d brought it up, Steve had put a halt to their activities, instituted a radio silence for at least a day or two, and Bucky couldn’t last that long, not when he was this keyed up over nothing more than kissing. Plus, every time they’d taken a break, no matter how short, it had felt like Bucky was drowning in stress and irritability and anxiety. Just by doing this, by fucking Bucky without meaning, Steve was still somehow taking care of Bucky, even though Bucky didn’t want him to ever again.

There were the feelings again. The ones that Bucky didn’t want to poke with a ten-foot pole. So he just sidestepped them and switched the angle of his neck so he could supply Steve with a new hickey.

“That a yes?” Steve asked gruffly, shoving Bucky’s pants down for him and letting Bucky lean on his forearms while he stepped out of the jeans.

“Yeah,” Bucky said breathlessly, leaning forward and kissing Steve’s jaw feverishly. His nose was smushed against Steve’s cheek and he couldn’t get a good breath in, but Bucky didn’t care. Now that he had shoved everything he was feeling aside, he didn’t really care about much else than getting something in him.

“Okay. One sec, baby,” Steve groaned as he stepped back, unzipping his own pants, pulling out a condom from his back pocket, and rolling it on.

The pet names in person were another thing that Bucky had tried to put a stop to. Over text they were cute, but in person it just felt like they were pretending to be something they weren’t, something they had used to be but wouldn’t be again. It felt fake, and made the feelings-tangle within Bucky wind itself tighter. But when Bucky had asked Steve to stop, Steve had, again, wanted to cut the whole thing off. Steve said that pet names, condoms, and being kind to Bucky were his limits on this whole thing, and Bucky had to deal with that. It wasn’t exactly what Bucky wanted, but didn’t matter too much; every time Bucky had managed to avoid the emotional tangle, Bucky knew that he just wanted Steve, and didn’t truly care what hoops he had to jump through to get that.

Bucky knew he had to jump through those hoops now, so he muttered, “I’m ready,” before Steve could ask, because Steve always asked. Bucky didn’t get why him standing there, naked and stretched, wasn’t clear enough consent for Steve, but it was just another thing Bucky had to do to get well-fucked by Steve, so he supposed it didn’t matter too much, and pushed aside to lay next to the rest of the wad of feelings.

“Wanna go my bed or anything?” Steve asked, running his thumbs along the soft spot where Bucky’s earlobes met his jaw.

“No, here’s good,” Bucky muttered, because it was. He wanted it hard and fast and against the wall, so fucking loud that the kids playing in Central Park across the street would assume someone was being murdered. Because hard and fast and loud was the best way not to feel the feelings-tangle, because there were a million physical sensations to pay attention to instead.

Steve nodded wordlessly and grabbed Bucky by his thighs, hoisting him up and lowering him down onto Steve like he weighed no more than a heavy paperweight. Bucky adored how stupidly strong Steve was, loved being able to get fucked against a wall while clinging to Steve’s biceps and never once fearing falling. It was, admittedly, blissful to hear Steve’s breath catch in his throat as he bottomed out within Bucky and started moving Bucky up and down on him, rocking slow and sweet.

Bucky wanted even harder and faster, wanted to drown the noise in his head out more thoroughly. He had wanted it like that ever since their relationship had devolved to . . . whatever this was. But Steve never gave him quite enough. Would fuck Bucky against the wall, but only rock up into Bucky instead of really thrusting, kissing him instead of biting, moaning softly instead of screaming, and squeezing Bucky’s thighs when he came instead of scratching seething lines into Bucky’s back. It felt good, undeniably so, but Bucky wanted more, wanted Steve to jackhammer into him until he couldn’t walk. But Steve would never do that to Bucky. Would only go slow and sweet.

Bucky could usually remedy that by biting at Steve’s lips until Steve was a little more fired up, willing to fuck into Bucky a little harder, which was fine. But Steve’s face was buried in Bucky’s neck, and he was kissing there, soft and wet in a way that would have been obscene if Bucky hadn’t had Steve’s cock up his ass at the same time, so there was no way Bucky could try to goad Steve into go any faster. Instead, he was just rocking, and Bucky was biting back pathetic little whimpering noises, because, even if it was painfully slow and gentle, Bucky’s cock was rubbing against Steve’s stomach and his prostate was being continually worked, and it felt better than anything ever had with anyone else ever.

Bucky squeezed Steve’s shoulders and rocked his own hips, trying to increase the pace just a bit, but Steve just sighed and bit Bucky’s shoulder too gently to even start to sting, let alone ache.

Despite the slowness, however, Bucky was coming within a few minutes, panting and tossing his head back so his hair was parallel to his spine, and fucking up his own T-shirt with his spunk. Steve followed along a few raw, overwhelmed moments later, grinding into Bucky an infinitesimally small amount harder and gasping Bucky’s name.

And then it was done, because that was how it was supposed to be; fun while it lasted and then over, done with, finished until one of them wanted to pick it back up again.

By the time Bucky had gotten his pants back on, it was like none of it had ever happened, like it had been some overly depressing wet dream and Bucky was actually just humping the mattress in his own apartment, fast asleep; the condom was tied up and down the garbage chute, both of them were fully clothed, and neither of them were even breathing hard. The only evidence anything had happened was the slight ache in Bucky’s backside that Bucky didn’t bother acknowledging.

“You free this weekend?” Steve asked as he walked Bucky to the elevator.

“Can’t,” Bucky said without thinking, pressing the button before Steve could do it for him. “I’ve got a date on Saturday, and I’m leading a study session on Sunday.”

Bucky tried to ignore the sudden pallor in Steve’s cheeks, the vanishing of Steve’s consistently rosy blush. Steve made a soft choking sound, like Eustace on a particularly nasty hairball, before staring down at the polished hardwood in between their feet. “That’s cool. Have fun on your date, Buck. Text me when you need me,” Steve mumbled.

Bucky didn’t know why he’d said date; it was drinks with a colleague who was going through a nasty divorce and wanted a friend. Bucky would have been a monster if he’d made it into a date, both because of whatever this was and because he’d be taking advantage of a friend, and he hadn’t been planning to. But something about getting to dig into Steve with a shoddily-constructed shiv made of poorly-planned words had felt appealing. Now, though, when the words were out, and Steve was all ashen-faced and clearly trying to put on a brave face, the comment didn’t quite satisfy, but instead twisted up Bucky’s tangle of emotions once again until it felt like he was choking.

“Does Monday work, though?” Bucky asked, despite knowing he was being idiotic.

But then Steve was smiling and the tangle didn’t feel quite as tight. “Monday’s good,” Steve said softly. Bucky had never hated himself quite as much as he did in that moment.

“Okay. Bye, Steve,” Bucky said firmly, stepping into the elevator.

“Bye,” Steve said, his mouth still twisted into a small, sad smile.

Bucky watched the doors close, and then collapsed against the wall of the elevator in regret and exhaustion. He needed to stop this. They weren’t even friends with benefits, since they weren’t friends. They were just benefits, and less and less of those at that, since every time Bucky wasn’t actively being fucked by Steve the tangle of hurt was getting worse.. Bucky needed to stop this. He knew he did.

But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he would never be able to keep himself from Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I'm sorry for the not-so-happy ending! The sequel probably won't be up for a few months, since I need time to finish planning and writing it. However, a few one-shots from this AU will probably be published in between now and then. Thank you so much for reading, and I can't wait to show all of you the sequel!


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